


After the Storm

by Ttime42



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Friendship, Healing, John is there for Sherlock, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Mind Palace, Other, Poetic, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Sexual Assault, Sexual Content, Sherlock is a BAMF, mystrade, violin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-02-07
Packaged: 2017-11-27 12:30:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 23,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/662028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ttime42/pseuds/Ttime42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John are in a sexual relationship and everything is fine until Sherlock gets raped on a case. John, Mycroft, and Lestrade are there to help and heal. Johnlock. Mystrade. Please heed the warnings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: this fic deals with a character getting raped and the recovery from said rape. If this sounds like something you don’t want to read, please don’t read it. I did research on this difficult subject matter for this story and I hope I portrayed it in a way that comes across as respectful and realistic. Warnings will be posted on graphic chapters. Also, in this world, John is bisexual and Sherlock is gay.

            “Do you _have_ to go?”

            “I signed up weeks ago.”

            “It’s not mandatory…you could stay here.”

            “I’ll only be gone three days. Monday at this time I’ll be home again. Think of that.”

            Sherlock reached up and cradled John’s cheek in his long hand. John closed his eyes, turning his face into the hand and kissing Sherlock’s palm.

            “You’re already a good doctor.” Sherlock complained. “What are they going to tell you in Edinburgh that you don’t already know?”

            They were in bed together in what used to just be Sherlock’s room that was now both of theirs, on their sides facing each other. The soft cream sheet was tangled around their twined legs and the moonlight was creeping through the window, illuminating their bare bodies in silver and blue.

            John sighed. “Sarah asked me to go.”

            “ _Sarah_.” Sherlock sneered. “What a mistake she was.” Sherlock hunched forward and buried his face in the crook of John’s neck, wrapping his arms and legs around John’s body, holding him close as he breathed into John’s neck. John tilted his head to accommodate Sherlock and rested his hands on Sherlock’s pale back. They’d just had a marathon sex session and he was feeling spent, sated and content.

            “Dating her was a mistake,” John said sleepily, “but she’s a good person and a good doctor.”

            Sherlock muttered something into John’s neck that sounded a lot like “mine” before he squeezed. John squeezed him back and they drifted off to sleep.

* * *

 

            “Sherlock, have you seen my ID?” John asked the next morning. He rushed out of the bedroom, wrapping his watch across his wrist, and looked at his lover who was languidly stretched out on the sofa, twirling the violin bow. His dressing gown was splayed open, revealing a toned, tempting chest, and his pajama bottoms were dangerously low. John glanced at the smattering of dark hair poking over the top of the waistband and rolled his eyes.

            “I’m not the keeper of your items.” Sherlock snipped.

            “You are if you take them.” John muttered at him. He finished with the watch and glanced at the suitcase leaning by the door. Everything was packed and ready for the three day conference up north…except his ID. Which he needed. John went into the kitchen and started sifting through experiments, looking for his ID card while trying not to touch the contents of the numbered Petri dishes. Sherlock put the bow down and got up, moving to stand in the doorway to watch John search.

            “I just had it!” John muttered, annoyed.

            “You could just stay home…” Sherlock mumbled, picking at his fingernail. John turned around and his heart caught in his throat. Sherlock’s hair was disarrayed. He licked his lips, making them glisten, and tilted his head back. His Adam’s apple bulged and his teal eyes were focused on John. The pajamas had gone even lower on his hips, revealing cotton-covered sharp bones, and below that…

            As wonderfully enticing as the sight was, John forced himself to glare at his partner. “You _did_ take it—what did you do with it?”

            “With what?” Sherlock licked his lips again.

            “My ID.” John growled, his fingers curling into fists.

            They stared at each other for a moment more until finally Sherlock relented and stormed over to his microscope. He lifted it, grabbed the plastic card that was concealed underneath, and handed it to John with a frown on his face.

            “Thank you.” John said curtly. He slid it into his shirt pocket, watching as Sherlock gave him the puppy eyes, his brows pinched and his lips pushed into a pout. “Come here,” John said with a sigh. He opened his arms and Sherlock barreled into him, not stopping until John was pressed up back up against the fridge. John’s hands instantly gripped Sherlock’s waist as the scientist plundered his mouth in a long satisfying kiss. “Oh God…”  John moaned. Sherlock nibbled John’s ear and John slipped his hands down Sherlock’s trousers and squeezed his hips, smoothing his hands around to grip that wonderfully firm arse. He kneaded Sherlock’s butt, encouraging the sloppy kisses and licks on his neck that were becoming more frantic.

            “Hoo-hoo.” A knock on the door made them both freeze. “John,” Mrs. Hudson called through the door, “your taxi is here.”

            John let out an irritated noise that turned into a squeak when Sherlock licked his neck.

            “I’ll let him know you’ll be a few minutes so you two can have a proper good-bye.” Her footsteps faded back down the steps.

            Sherlock reluctantly pulled away from John.

            “Oh no,” John tugged him back, “I have a whole ‘few minutes’ still.”

            They made out for approximately 140 more seconds before John came up for air.

            “I’ll miss you.” He breathed into Sherlock’s hair.

            “Me too.” Sherlock panted.

            “I love you.” John said.

            “Love you.” Sherlock stepped aside and John hurried in front of the mirror to adjust his clothes and smooth his hair where Sherlock had ruffled it. He grabbed his bag, gave Sherlock one more peck on the lips, and trotted down the steps. Sherlock closed his dressing gown and tugged his trousers back up and moved to the window. He watched John get in the waiting taxi. Mrs. Hudson waved from the front stoop and the taxi pulled away. A hand came out of the back passenger window, waving up at 221B. Sherlock’s mouth quirked into a small grin and he put his palm on the glass, watching until the cab was out of sight.

            He threw himself on the sofa and grabbed his phone, thumbs flying as he texted.

            _Bored. –SH_

_I literally JUST left. –JW_

_Still bored. I can still feel where your hands were on me. –SH_

_If it makes you feel any better, my ear is stinging from your lovebites. Three days. –JW_

_It does. 72 hours. 4,320 minutes. 259,200 seconds.—SH_

_Check out Petri dish 4 if you’re bored. I think whatever was fermenting in there is done. –JW_

_No, it still has a week left. Couldn’t you tell by the shade of the pigment? Honestly John, I despair of you sometimes. –SH_

_Arse. –JW_

_Wanker. –SH_

            John didn’t respond. Grinning, Sherlock got up to check the contents of Petri dish 4 more closely under the microscope.

* * *

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Fairly graphic rape in this chapter. I'll post chapter 3 today too so you can skip this one if you don't want to read it.

           Happily, Lestrade called Sherlock after John left to tell him about a case involving drug trafficking. Sherlock eagerly pursued it for the rest of Friday evening and into Saturday morning, glad for the distraction. The case had lead him through the Tube and over the rooftops of London, and now Sherlock was striding up to an abandoned warehouse in one of the rougher areas of the city. All the evidence pointed to the warehouse being used as storage for the perp’s drugs, all Sherlock had to do was find them. Sherlock usually didn’t care if a case brought him to a dangerous area of the city. There was danger everywhere, he reasoned. He could get hit by a car outside 221B. A bolt of lightning could strike…statistically improbable, sure, but possible. Anyway, it was the middle of the day on Saturday—an unlikely time for crime to be committed.

            Sherlock entered the building and peered around, looking for signs of fresh entry. He prowled the perimeter, his keen eyes darting from the floor to the ceiling. A bootprint there, a disturbed mound of dust here, Sherlock delved further into the warehouse, mentally ticking off points of interest as he went. He was so absorbed in his observations that he wasn’t aware of the attacker until a meaty arm clamped around his throat from behind.

            “Don’t bother trying to scream.” Hot smoker’s breath brushed past his ear. Sherlock had no such intention. He drove an elbow back into the guy’s gut, gurgling when the man grunted, barely flinched, and tightened his hold, constricting Sherlock’s air. It was like elbowing a warm wall.

            “What’s a posh thing like you doing in here? This is a rough area, you know.”

            Sherlock made a breathy sound and the man loosened his grip slightly and forced Sherlock over to a large wooden crate.

            “Let me go.” Sherlock growled. He struggled again, trying to execute a baritsu move, but his vision was getting fuzzy around the edges and his strength was waning fast.

            “Nope. You’re way too pretty to let go.”

            The word _rape_ shot across Sherlock’s mind and he tried not to tense up too much in the man’s arm.

            “My wallet’s in my pocket.” He said, keeping his voice steady. The man snickered.

            “Not your wallet I want.”

            Wrong answer. Sherlock made a breath noise again, and when the man loosened up on his neck a little more, Sherlock spun out a baritsu move, catching the attacker off guard. Sherlock whirled and looked into his face for the first time. He was tall and on the stockier side. Despite that, his skin was sort of sallow and his cheeks were caved in with the malnourished look of someone who spent a lot of time on the streets. Hollow. Dark rings circled his eyes and it was clear by the smell that he didn’t wash much. Despite Sherlock’s strength and baritsu training, the guy was just too big and brawny. Sherlock landed a few solid punches that only seemed to enrage the man. He punched Sherlock sloppily across the side of the head with a sickening _crack_ and stars blew across Sherlock’s eyes. The man bent him over the crate and Sherlock struggled, writhing when the man groped up his thigh and reached into his coat pocket, taking his phone. A _crunch,_ and Sherlock knew the phone was gone. He blinked, trying to get oriented. A trickle down the side of his neck told him the seriousness of the head wound and he struggled again when he felt his coat get swept aside. Big hands on his waistband and Sherlock kicked back. He received another painful smack on the head.

            “Stop moving.”

            His trousers were yanked down and his pants soon followed. Sherlock clenched his eyes shut, his heart slamming and his breathing fast. It seemed this was going to happen. He could barely think straight as his vision swam from the head wounds. He blinked and shook his head, feeling dizzy. He willed himself to relax, down there. A hand painfully grabbed the back of his neck, holding him firmly to the crate. There was rustling, then the guy spat into his hand. There was an agonizingly long moment where Sherlock knew the guy was rubbing his saliva onto his cock. He clenched his eyes closed and for the first time since he was a small child thought of actually saying a prayer. The absurdity of the notion struck him dumb before a hard hot cock shoved between his cheeks, driving a scream from Sherlock. No preparation, and only saliva for lubrication. For the next few moments everything was just pain. Sherlock couldn’t think or even hardly breathe as the man thrust in and out, tearing the flesh. Sherlock winced when the man climaxed inside him, blessedly quickly.

            “Good boy.” The man breathed.

            Sherlock cried quietly into the crate, yelping as the man pulled out of him. Footsteps crunched and faded and he was left alone. Sherlock lay there for a few moments, trying to get his bearings. Everything hurt and he felt filthy and vile. Thoughts were a dull roar in his head, his mind reeling from the psychological and physical blow he’d just been dealt. His mind replayed the incident in his head unbidden as it tried to make sense of everything. He lay there, alone, for awhile until he felt himself calm somewhat. He needed to call someone—Lestrade popped into his head. Mycroft? God, he’d really rather not. Though if he called Lestrade, Mycroft would probably find out anyway. For a police officer, Lestrade was bloody horrible at keeping secrets. John? God no, John couldn’t see him like this. A wave of agony washed over him as he thought of John. His lover and his best friend. God, John would hate to see him like this. All sniveling tears and trembling limbs. Sherlock firmly pushed that thought aside before it could get too far and decided to focus on standing.

            Everything hurt even more when he moved. He wiped a hand over his nose and eyes and reached back, touching his bottom. He felt liquid and shivered. He brought his hand up, saw semen and blood on his fingers, and vomited. His phone was, predictably, smashed on the floor. Sherlock straightened once his stomach emptied and tugged his clothing back up, fixing his outward appearance as best he could. He needed medical attention, he knew that much. He couldn’t go to Bart’s though—he and John knew way too many people there, and Sherlock was sure as hell not going to tell John about this. No, Sherlock would go into his mind palace and delete it like he did the solar system and John never needed to know and they could go about their lives like normal. Simple. Sherlock hobbled towards the door, his arse burning and his whole body wobbly and sore from the rush of adrenalin and the stress. He’d get to a phone and call Lestrade, then figure it out from there.

* * *

 

            Sherlock had never been more grateful to see his brother’s black limo as it pulled up to the payphone outside the convenience store. The back door opened from inside and Sherlock slipped slowly in, barely able to keep the pain off his face as he lowered onto the seat. His trousers were damp and stiff and they pressed uncomfortable and cold onto his legs.

            “Jesus.” It was Lestrade who occupied the backseat of the car. Mycroft was nowhere to be seen. Sherlock was grateful for the extra room the limo provided and he lay down across the plush leather, glad to have the pressure off his backside. “Did you get a look at him?” Lestrade asked, clearly trying to look closer at Sherlock without invading his space. Sherlock put a hand over his eyes to block the bright light from the window. He realized he must look like hell but he didn’t care.

            “Yeah.” Sherlock muttered hoarsely. He’d remember that bastard’s face clear as crystal for the rest of his life.

            “Here.” A bottle of water was pushed into his hands and Sherlock drank it down.

            “Mycroft?” Sherlock asked.

            “Arranging with his private doctor…Sherlock—”

            “—No, Lestrade.” Sherlock said, cutting off what was sure to be stupid questions about how he was feeling or platitudes meant to reassure him. The idea of either was horrible and Sherlock, for once, didn’t feel like being snarky. “Thank you, but not now.”

            Lestrade fell quiet and the rest of the trip was made in silence.

The limo dropped them at a slate-grey, unassuming building. Mycroft’s doctor was professional and discreet, patching Sherlock up and taking the required samples in a clean sleek office before taking his leave. Mycroft stepped into the room when the doctor finished. Sherlock was staring blankly at the wall.

            “Sherlock—”

            “—Eight stitches on my skull. Severe bruising across my abdomen—no internal bleeding, miraculously. Bruises on my arse and thighs. A torn sphincter and psychological damage.  Waiting for the results for an ID on my attacker and to see if there’s an STI.”

            Mycroft didn’t say anything and Sherlock looked away from the wall, directly into his brother’s eyes.

            “Don’t tell John.” Sherlock said quietly.

            “Sherlock.” Mycroft paused, worried creases at the corners of his eyes and in the set of his mouth.“How are you, really?”

            “I’ve just been sexually assaulted by the most repugnant excuse for a human being in existence. I feel peachy.”

            “Why don’t you spend the night with Greg and me—”

            “No.”

            “Sherlock, don’t shut off from this.” Mycroft said. He rested his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and Sherlock shoved it off.

            “Don’t tell me what to fucking do, Mycroft. You got me the doctor—and I thank you for that— now leave me alone.” Mycroft stepped towards the door, then paused again.

            “Greg is requesting you speak with a sketch artist.”

            “Yeah, fine, whatever.”

            “Someone will take you back to Baker Street—”

            “—one of the smarter things you’ve said today—”

            “—and I’d really like one of us to be there with you, Sherlock.”

            Sherlock glared mutinously at the floor. “Do what you want but stay out of my way. And be gone by Monday.” John was coming home on Monday and Sherlock had to be back to normal by then.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John comes back home.

             John put his bag down just inside the door on Monday evening, glad to be home. The conference had been interesting and informative, but he’d missed his partner and on the train home had thought of a few very nice ways he’d like to show Sherlock just how much he’d missed him. He wondered if Sherlock would mind getting whipped cream on the riding crop.

            The sitting room was empty, the two tall windows dark and the TV in the corner off. John wandered into the kitchen and saw Sherlock seated at the microscope, looking through the lens. John instantly felt a little miffed. He wasn’t exactly expecting the man to be waiting at the door, but he could at least _get up_ when he heard John coming.

            “Hello, John.” Sherlock looked up, his warm and genuine smile soothing John’s irritation. Happiness burst in John’s chest at the sight of his partner and the sound of his voice.

            “Sherlock…” John went over to Sherlock and wrapped his arms around him from behind and put a kiss on his cheek. Sherlock tensed and John leaned off of him. “You okay?”John said. He instinctively rubbed Sherlock’s back, concerned, stopping again when Sherlock actually flinched away from him. “Holy sh—what happened to your head?!” John touched the hair around Sherlock’s temple, noting the small, clean stitches.

            “I’m fine. I fell down the stairs.” Sherlock said. He tilted his head out of John’s hands and turned back to the microscope. “Was the conference useful?”

            “Yeah.” John went to the kettle, his mind whirring. Sherlock _never_ reacted to his touch like this. And given how handsy he was when John was leaving three days ago, this behavior was just odd. Sherlock also wasn’t prone to clumsiness—he was as graceful as a cat.

            Sherlock slid his eyes up, watching John pour the boiling water from the kettle. John suspected something already, Sherlock was sure. John’s shoulders were tense and Sherlock could tell by the set of John’s jaw that he was thinking hard about something. He couldn’t tell John, not now. Not ever. John would be completely disgusted. Sherlock knew baritsu for crying out loud and he couldn’t even subdue a psychotic rapist? Couldn’t talk his way out of it? Sherlock knew that part of John’s attraction to him was because of his intellect and if John found out that Sherlock was unable to defend himself both physically _and_ mentally…what the hell would John think of him? Sherlock was disgusted with himself for what John’s reaction would be. He had to act normal. _Kiss him,_ Sherlock’s brain urged. Act normal, yes. Until he could delete it he had to act normal.

            Sherlock stood carefully. John wasn’t facing him so Sherlock took his time as the pain in his arse bloomed briefly and faded again to the dull, constant throb. John turned as Sherlock came towards him and happily accepted the tense, stiff hug Sherlock gave him. Sherlock forced himself to place a chaste kiss on John’s lips. Whereas three days ago he couldn’t get enough of John, now he didn’t feel a thing except his damaged brain’s begging of him to stop. Images of the rape flashed and Sherlock broke the kiss.

            “Are you feeling okay?” John asked. He rested his forehead on Sherlock’s shoulder, nuzzling into his neck. Sherlock simply stood there, his arms loosely holding John. _John is safe…John is good._

            “A little off, but fine.” Sherlock conceded. It wasn’t a lie, and if he told John he wasn’t feeling well, maybe John wouldn’t suspect much of anything was wrong.

            “I hope you’re not getting sick.” John said, sighing into Sherlock’s neck. His warm breath blew over Sherlock’s ear and the memory of the rapist’s hot breath behind him made Sherlock tense up. He stepped out of John’s arms.

            John looked at him, at a loss.

            “Why don’t you go to bed?” John suggested carefully. “Do you have a case?”

            “No. No case.”

            _“Lestrade…” Sherlock had told him yesterday, “no cases for a while…not yet.”_

            “Then there’s no excuse for you not to be getting a full night’s sleep.” John said with a small smile. “I’m knackered anyway—and I missed you. I’ll take a shower and be in there soon, okay?”

            “Sure, John.” Sherlock submitted to John kissing his cheek before the doctor disappeared out of the kitchen. Well, that could have gone worse. John just thought he was sick—if he could just be under the weather for the next few days, John would probably let him be. Sherlock licked his lips. How was sleeping going to work? He didn’t even want to share a bed—he didn’t want to be bloody touched at all. Sex and intimacy was like a foreign concept. Maybe he could feign illness and sleep on the sofa. He pushed that thought aside. No, he _wanted_ to be near John, despite his misgivings…John was safe.  John had missed him. Sherlock snorted. _No one_ had ever ‘missed him’ before. People were always glad he was gone or they didn’t notice he’d left. John though…a wonderful anomaly in every way possible, had actually missed him. Had wanted him. Had sent him dirty texts over the weekend (which Sherlock had mechanically returned so that John wouldn’t worry. He wasn’t opposed to whipped cream on the riding crop in general, he just didn’t want to be any part of that right now).

Sherlock cleaned up the slides and went into the bedroom and pulled down the sheets. He dressed in a clean pair of pajama bottoms and a black Tshirt and crawled into bed. He wasn’t feeling especially tired, but lying down for a while seemed as good a thing as any to do.

            John padded into the room toweling his hair. When he saw Sherlock in bed, curled up and facing away from him, he frowned. Something had to be wrong. Either Sherlock really was feeling this ill and out of it, or something else was going on. John had never seen Sherlock sick, so he had no familiar experience to draw on. Maybe this was just how Sherlock got when he was ill. Or maybe he was just feeling sulky. John noted that Sherlock was in trousers and a shirt, not his usual naked-in-bed. John changed out of his robe into a pair of boxers and a Tshirt before sliding into bed beside Sherlock. Neither one of them said anything. It felt weird for both of them to be wearing clothes like this. John felt like Sherlock was some stranger lying next to him and he didn’t like that sensation at all. John hesitantly put his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, glad when the detective rolled over and faced him. John beckoned Sherlock closer.

            “I don’t want you to get sick.” Sherlock said.

            “Fair enough.” John watched Sherlock close his eyes and feign sleep. John was worried. There was a nagging doubt deep inside that was telling him this was more than just not feeling well, but he was also exhausted. He allowed himself to sleep and hoped Sherlock would feel better tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the kudos/comments, readers! :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Memories of the rape in this chapter. Nothing worse than what was in chapter 2 though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is the reason this fic is tagged 'poetic'

Sherlock lay down on the sofa a couple days later, crossing his feet at the ankle and steepling his hands under his chin. John had run out to the store and now seemed a perfectly good time to jump into his palace and clean house. The initial raw shock of the attack had dulled somewhat, and Sherlock hoped he could begin to make sense of it. He closed his eyes and settled deeply into the cushions…

_The clean, comfortable foyer surrounded him—the same one from his childhood home. The gold-brown tiles varnished and the silver light fixture above his head casting crystal shards of light on the pale taupe walls. Sherlock walked forward, the little avatar version of himself a fluid mix of himself as a teenager and himself now. There were no permanent mirrors in the palace, and Sherlock never focused on what exactly he looked like in here. Not important._

_Beyond the foyer, the rest of the rooms stacked and sprawled out in a jumble of big and small, oval, square, and pyramid. Some rooms had doors, some didn’t. He’d done additions over the years and now had to walk through rooms of associations to get to other areas. He remembered the addition he initially added on to his room of medical knowledge, the one for John. Sherlock had had to shuffle and change that around when it was clear that John was going to be a large part of his life. Indeed, John now had an entire wing._

_He began walking further away from the foyer, stepping over the memory of a bright red and blue stuffed plush parrot—a favorite childhood toy when he was going through his pirate phase. He often started at a back door nowadays, to access information quickly. He’d started with constructing the foyer in his childhood, when he was first building this palace, as a sort of easy starting point; now though, he could easily breeze in an out of any room anywhere. His brain wore his palace like an old, comfy sweater and he never got lost._

_Sherlock instantly noticed a difference in his palace today, in the air or in the feel of it, the way the air outside feels different right before a thunderstorm. It crackled and bloated with tension and Sherlock didn’t like it. He didn’t like the way the words ‘assault’ and ‘rape’ hung from the cracked ceiling like ugly giant spiders. He hadn’t allowed those in there. Sherlock walked forward, kicking the words into a smoky oblivion. There were cracks in the plaster and in the floorboards that weren’t there before; they were new from the rape, like the psychological weight of it was buckling the palace and would cause the whole thing to cave in. Sherlock looked up. He could see the white, curving rooftop of John’s wing. It was designed it so he could always see John wherever he was in the palace. He hadn’t done that consciously, but it was nice, he reasoned. John was safe. John was good and his presence, however abstract, was reassuring._

_Sherlock headed towards that wing, fast forwarding a bit past the steel-plated door where he kept information on recognizing types and models of guns and bullets and zooming past the curtained off section where all two-hundred plus types of tobacco ash were neatly organized on some wooden shelves. The sight that greeted him at the golden threshold of John’s area was covered in a black oily muck, like someone had vomited grease. Sherlock clenched his fists in anger, then froze. It was still in here, the malevolent presence wandering the halls seemed to intensify in this area, challenging and threatening, as if it knew it wasn’t welcome but was unpacking to move in anyway. How dare it. This was one of Sherlock’s favorite areas in the palace, situated between his wood-paneled and Fiddlebrite-scented violin room and the gigantic grey stone cave that housed any current cases._

_Sherlock glared at the unwelcome stink of the attack in the air and crouched down in front of a puddle of the black grease. It looked like the stuff that ran into the sewers in parking lots. Sherlock dipped two fingers in and instantly he was bent back over the crate, his bruising stomach aching and the attacker’s cock ripping through flesh. Sherlock yanked his hand away and fell back, the ooze seeming to increase. Sherlock got up. His palace was infected and he needed to purify it._

“Sherlock?” A voice in the distance. A light flashed in one of the windows in John’s wing.

_How could he purify it though? It wasn’t just a matter of sweeping up with a broom. The solar system had been easy enough to delete, but he’d never encountered these puddles of ooze before…how was he supposed to clean them?_

“Sherlock, are you okay?” The voice was louder, closer, and the edges of the palace were fading.

_Sherlock turned on the mess and zipped through the violin room. There was a much-used door in there that would lead out and back to reality…_

Sherlock opened his eyes. He was in the sitting room on the sofa, staring up at a mildly concerned John.

“That sodding bastard took a shit on your front door.” Sherlock growled, outraged beyond belief at the state of John’s sullied threshold.

“Excuse me?” John’s brows were knitted in puzzlement.

“Never mind.” Sherlock waved his hand, suddenly feeling tired.

 “Oh. Uh, I got some food…I was thinking we could have baked chicken tonight.” John reached up and scratched his head and Sherlock’s lips quirked at John, in his wonderful rumpled knit jumper and his jeans and brown shoes. He didn’t deserve to have an asshole ruin his golden threshold. John continued speaking, oblivious to the state or existence of his threshold. “You like chicken—last time you finished off the portion I’d saved for Mrs. Hudson to say ‘thank you’ for the cake she made us...the one time you actually eat something and it’s someone else’s food…” John sounded mildly annoyed at the memory and Sherlock got off the sofa. He put his hands on John’s shoulders and pulled him towards his chest, kissing him on the forehead before he inhaled the scent of John’s hair. “Thank you.” He said quietly.

“You’re welcome…for what?”

Sherlock wasn’t sure what to say. He knew it was something along the lines of “for being so fucking awesome that I made you a giant mansion in my mind palace.” He doubted there was a greeting card for that.

* * *

 

For the rest of the evening, John watched Sherlock move listlessly from the sofa to the microscope, to the bedroom, then back to the sofa. He even turned on the telly a few times. While he wasn’t improving—so much that he wasn’t being his usual snarky self and jumping down Lestrade’s throat for cases, he also wasn’t getting worse. He had no physical symptoms that John could see. Runny nose, sneezing, vomiting, dizziness—nothing. Sherlock was just…there. Static. John hated to think it, but, _boring._ A willingly bored Sherlock was a very bad sign.

“What are you thinking about?” Sherlock said, sitting on the sofa, staring at the TV.

“Wha—huh?” John answered, peering up from his laptop.

Sherlock continued staring at the TV and the stupid sitcom on it. “You haven’t typed anything in 22 minutes. Instead you’ve elected to watch me. You’re obviously thinking about something, so back to my original question—what are you thinking about?”

John let out a small sigh. “Hear from Lestrade?”

“No, why?” Sherlock glanced at John.

“You don’t have a case. I noticed the Petri dishes are empty—”

“—well done, John—”

“—and that you’re just sulking around here like a sack of potatoes.”

A flash of hurt passed over Sherlock’s face before it vanished under an indifferent mask. “Potatoes can’t sulk.”

“You know what I mean.” John put his laptop aside and stood, going to his lover. Sherlock watched him approach and John rested a warm hand on Sherlock’s forehead. “No fever.” John murmured.

“No.” Sherlock tilted his head out of John’s hand.

“Why aren’t you letting me touch you?” John blurted, trying not to sound exasperated. “You kissed me before, so you can’t be that sick.”

Sherlock licked his lips and stared once more at the glowing screen. “I just don’t feel well.”

“Do you need to go see a doctor?” John asked. “One that’s not me?”

“No.” Sherlock said. He looked up at John. “I get like this, John. Don’t fret over me like I’m some damsel in distress. I said when we first met that sometimes I don’t talk for days, so just _leave me alone_.” Sherlock forced himself to look back at the TV. He knew John well enough to know what he had said would cut. There was a pause, then angry footsteps storming down the steps, then the slamming of the front door. Sherlock flipped off the TV and rubbed his face. It was for John’s own good that he didn’t know. Once Sherlock could stand the thought of intimacy again, he’d gladly do whatever John wanted in bed and make it all up to him. Shaking his head, Sherlock rose and headed for the shower. Just thinking about what he had become made him feel unclean.

* * *

 

 _Dammit Sherlock!_ John stormed down Baker Street. He just wanted to move around, to get out of that flat with its snarky, caustic, rude, clever, genius inhabitant. The one who he loved. Sherlock was right, he _had_ warned John that he got in these weird sulks sometimes. But it had been ages since John had seen in him sulk so long and hard before. Since they’d been involved as a couple, Sherlock rarely sulked. So what was going on?

His logical doctor’s voice chimed in. Maybe he just had a stomach virus or something. Maybe it was the weather. Maybe all those years of not getting proper bloody nutrition for his ‘just transport’ was catching up to him. Maybe he was upset that there were no cases—after all, no one could do bored as fantastically as Sherlock, but if that was the case, why were there no new bullet holes in the wall or a freshly decomposing dog’s brain in the oven? When Sherlock was bored, he always found himself a way out of it that had never once before involved television shows that Sherlock usually referred to as a whole as “a merry parade of idiots.” 

A dark thought entered John’s head. _Maybe he’s cheating?_ The thought made his blood freeze, then he cursed himself a fool. Sherlock, cheat? When in the right mood, Sherlock could be as horny and hands-and-tongues-on as a teenager—just like he was when John left to go to Scotland—but more often than not his libido got shoved into some back attic of his mind palace until John had to, ah, _remind_ him that it was there. Then it was back to hands and fingers and cock and tongue.

He got to the corner and paused in front of a coffee shop to get his bearings. He wasn’t too far away. In fact, he’d head back soon. John stepped into the little shop that was warm with the scent of coffee and cream and people. He got two small dark roasts for each of them and headed back home, sipping one.

Cheating? Now that he’d thought of it, he couldn’t shake it. If, _if,_ Sherlock was cheating on him…John gulped a scalding swallow of coffee…then that could maybe explain why he didn’t want to be touched. If he was getting what he needed from someone else, then why would he want John anymore? Though, John made a face, Sherlock didn’t exactly open up to people. Who the hell else would he have found? John’s ego swelled at the thought, but truly, Sherlock barely tolerated anyone else in the planet. Maybe this…other relationship had been going on for a while, then. John was no detective, he could have missed the signs.

John shoved the thoughts from his head as he approached the flat. He was _not_ going to think this way. He had no proof or any reason at all to suspect. _Except that he’s not touching you and will barely even look at you,_ the little voice said.

* * *

 

Sherlock stepped out of the shower and wrapped the huge white bath towel around his waist. He felt marginally better after the hot shower. The purple bruises across his belly fom banging into the crate stood out in gruesome contrast with his white skin. The stitches on his scalp itched and Sherlock looked at them in the mirror, the scabs softened by the shower. They appeared to be healing well. John could look at them…John. Sherlock cursed under his breath. John was upset. Sherlock knew this, but, well, too bad. John would have to deal with it for now. Sherlock had to keep John away. He had to get over this…experience before he let John near again. He had to delete the ooze in his palace. John never needed to know. Come to think of it, it had been nearly a week now since the rape occurred. Sherlock wiped the fog and looked at himself in the mirror. Maybe it was time to try a little bit? Just on his own. Maybe re-associating positive things with sexual activity would help clear his head.

Sherlock licked his lips and braced himself on the sink with his left hand. With his right, he fisted his flaccid cock. Not a speck of interest. He rubbed it, long up and down strokes. Still nothing. Sherlock closed his eyes and thought of John, the doctor’s corded arm muscles and warm hands gripping his hips and that beautiful scar on his left shoulder. How John would prep him and slip into his body when he was deep in his palace and needed help shutting down. The way John’s hair looked fluffy and soft in the morning and those deep blue eyes looking up at him as Sherlock rode him, rocking, rocking…the image of John morphed into the image of his attacker, with his sallow face and ringed eyes. Sherlock remembered the hard hand shoving him down over the crate—the cold thick fingers on his trousers—the breaching muscle—Sherlock let his cock go with a growl of anger, surprised to find he was sweating and shaking a little bit.

He rinsed his hand under the faucet, muttering curses at himself. He couldn’t even fucking masturbate by himself without thinking of that bastard. A couple more cracks broke through the palace walls and Sherlock grit his teeth. That motherfucker was not going to break him.

Annoyed, Sherlock went out into the kitchen clad only in the towel. The air was cool on his damp skin. He flipped the kettle on and rested his hands on the edge of the counter, waiting for the water to boil. A wet curl of dark hair on his forehead dripped slowly onto the counter, creating a tiny puddle.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock jumped at John’s voice—he had no idea John was back!—and whirled around. John was standing there in his coat, two coffees from the corner place up the road in his hands.

John’s eyes instantly landed on Sherlock’s bruised abdomen.

“Jesus!” John breathed, horrified. He came forward, shoving the coffees onto the table as he went. “What the hell happened?”

“Nothing.” Sherlock said automatically. He stepped back from John.

“Nothing my arse!”

“I told you, I fe—”

“—don’t you dare patronize me and tell me you got _severe bruising_ across your abdomen from falling down the bloody steps. Is this why you’ve been so out of it—are you bleeding internally? Has a doctor looked at you…?” John walked after Sherlock and Sherlock stood still, forcing himself to let John touch his belly. Those soft, capable fingers danced over the tender area and John tutted. “No doubt your stitches there,” John gestured to Sherlock’s head, “are from the same injury?”

Sherlock didn’t say anything.

“What the hell is going on, Sherlock?!” Concern made him speak more sharply than was warranted, and if he had been paying attention at all he’d notice how nervous Sherlock was under his hands, wearing only the towel. But the thought of Sherlock _cheating_ on him, and now the mysterious horrible bruises forced John into a mini panic mode.

“It was a case.” Sherlock snapped, again moving away from John. “It was a bad area of town.”

“A _case_? A bloody case caused these injuries? What the hell is Lestrade playing at, letting you get hurt like this!?”

“Don’t blame Lestrade.” Sherlock said quietly. Lestrade and Mycroft had puttered around the flat all last weekend, and Sherlock hated to admit that it had been rather nice to not be alone. Sherlock really wished John would stop shouting, and he really wished he was wearing more clothing. John didn’t seem to hear him as he kept yelling.

“You get this badly hurt while I’m gone and you can’t even tell me? Did you tell anyone or did you just delete it? I’d really like to know what the hell is going on here, Sherlock—is there someone else?!”

John’s eyes widened in surprise as soon as the words left his mouth. He hadn’t meant to say that last part. He fell quiet. Sherlock had gone white as milk.

“Sherlock…” John said in a softer tone.

“You,” Sherlock swallowed, “you think I’m cheating on you?” It was almost like reliving the attack, the sense of betrayal was that huge. A kick to the face. A punch to the belly. For once, no comeback entered his head and Sherlock turned, numbly moving for the safety of his old room.

“Wait—Sherlock!” The slamming door answered him.

John stood in the empty kitchen, the silence ringing. He stumbled into the sitting room and sank into his chair, caught up in anger and confusion and frustration. What the hell was going on? Sherlock wasn’t cheating—he knew that simply by the look on the man’s face when he’d…God, he really had accused Sherlock of cheating, hadn’t he. John rubbed his hands over his eyes. He wished he could see the world the way Sherlock did just for once and be able to pick up on the no doubt thousands of miniscule clues that would point out an answer. He was confused about Sherlock, but he was still pissed off at Lestrade. John grabbed his phone and dialed the DI.

 _“Lestrade.”_ The officer said his name by way of greeting.

“Greg, it’s me—what the hell are you thinking letting Sherlock get hurt like that on one of _your_ damn cases?”

 _“John.”_ Lestrade sounded pleasantly chastened. _“I wasn’t there. I’m sorry, mate.”_

“What about back-up? Donovan?”

_“He went off on his own—I didn’t know he was going to go but if I had, he would have had back up. C’mon John, we’ve worked together long enough. You know I’d never let him into a place like that in that area of the city alone.”_

“Those are some fucking spectacular bruises on him, Lestrade. Why the hell didn’t your GPS track his phone? You knew he was investigating your crap, you should have had him on your radar at all times!”

_“John, I know you’re angry as hell, and you have every right to be, but even if we had picked up a signal from his phone, we might not have gotten there in time. He was pretty far from the Yard.”_

Something disturbing shifted in John’s mind. “What do you mean, ‘in time?’ In time for what?”

Lestrade was quiet.

“Greg?”

_“John, what did Sherlock tell you about his injuries?”_

“Just that he got them on your bloody case!”

Greg was quiet again.

"Greg, seriously stop with the fucking silence and tell me what the hell is going on. Right now.”

He heard a muffled man’s voice in the background—Mycroft probably. John so did not want to deal with another Holmes right now.

 _“John,”_ Lestrade again, _“I think we should talk in person—”_

“No, dammit. Tell me what’s going on.”

_“John…Sherlock was raped.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I could interrupt for just a moment, what did you all think of the mind palace part at the start of the chapter? Too long? Too short? Did you skim/skip it? Thanks.


	5. Chapter 5

The earth stopped spinning. All the blood rushed to John’s head and if he wasn’t sitting already he would have been on his knees. He opened his mouth. A sound croaked out. He closed it. A boulder was slowly crushing his chest and his veins felt like they were filled with cement.

 _“It happened at an old warehouse…”_  Greg chattered on but John was barely listening.

 _“John? John…”_ Shuffling and scuffling, then Mycroft’s posh tones crackled over the line. _“John, we took him to a doctor—one of the best doctors—after it happened.”_

“I…”

 _“I know this is a lot to take in.”_ Mycroft continued. _“Is he there?”_

“Yeah.” John managed. “Wh—why didn’t anyone tell me?” He felt broken, lost. Like a piece of him had been torn away and burned.

_“One of the first things he said to me was ‘don’t tell John.’”_

“Oh fuck…” John’s last accusing words to Sherlock came back to him and he nearly wept right there on the phone. How could he have been so fucking stupid?

 _“You’ll both get through this.”_ Mycroft’s voice was confident and firm. _“Understand? Neither of you are alone.”_

“Was he?” John croaked. “Alone?”

_“When it happened, yes. Greg and I stayed with him at Baker Street until you got home.”_

“If I just hadn’t gone on that stupid conference…”

_“He needs you John. Possibly more than he ever has before.”_

“Yeah.” John took a breath and sat up straight, soldiering himself. “Of course. I…I need to go…”

 _“We’ll keep in touch.”_ Mycroft hung up. John slid his phone onto the table, thoughts pouring through his head. He stood up, feeling achy and ancient, and knocked on the bedroom door.

“Sherlock? I’m sorry. I’m _so_ sorry.” John’s voice broke—the words would never be enough—and Sherlock yanked the door open. He was dressed in jeans and a shirt and he looked wide-eyed at John before his deducing face slipped on. “You know.” Sherlock said simply. “How did you figure…no…” Sherlock eyed him critically, then rolled his eyes. “Lestrade.”

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me?” John asked. There was no heat behind the words. John was too exhausted.

“I told Mycroft not to tell—”

“Sherlock!” John interrupted.

“What, tell you that I got _raped_?” Sherlock spat.

John nodded.

“Because it doesn’t concern you.” Sherlock said.

“In what way does my partner being sexually assaulted not concern me?!”

"It's not like _you_ were raped." Sherlock said, baffled. John opened and closed his mouth a few times. His face turned red with irritation.

"What?" Sherlock said, even more baffled now by John's reaction.

"But—wha--y-you were!" John spluttered. "You didn't tell me!"

"I didn't want you to—!" Sherlock cut himself off and fell quiet, staring at the floor, a moody pout on his face.

“What?” John said, his voice softer. “Sherlock, I’m sorry.” He was saying that a lot all of a sudden and if he didn’t do this right, Sherlock could walk out on him and that would be it. The thought was cold and sobering, and John took a breath. “Don’t shut me out on this. Not anymore.”

Sherlock pursed his lips, then silently went further into the room, leaving the door open in invitation. The shades were pulled on the window, making the room moody and dark. John followed, as was usual. Sherlock pulled the blankets back on his bed—their bed—and lay down on his side of the mattress, on his back, staring up at the ceiling. John got in beside him, curled on his left side, facing Sherlock. They’d had many a heavy conversation in this bed in these exact positions. It was like this that John told Sherlock some, not all, of his experiences in the war. It was here that Sherlock told John about his first-ever case and deduction, and his parent’s subsequent divorce because of it. John told Sherlock about his overbearing father and Sherlock told him horror stories about being bullied for his brilliance. These were familiar and safe positions if not very welcome ones.

“I…I thought you’d leave.” Sherlock said, stumbling over the sentiment of what he was saying. “If I told you.” Then quietly, “I wanted to delete it before it became an issue.”

“Sherlock, you can’t just delete this.”

“Why not?” Sherlock hissed. “Why is the bloody sentiment of it all having such an effect on me?”

“Because you’re human.” John told him. “Because this isn’t like a case where you can find clues and make deductions and wrap it all up in a bow. This is messy.”

“It’s all over the place.” Sherlock said in a hushed voice. “It’s not in just one room. There’s bits and pieces of it _everywhere_ and I can’t make sense of it.”

“I’m here. We’re all here to help you find the pieces.” John shifted and found Sherlock’s hand under the blanket. He brushed up against the skin, unsure if he should. Sherlock gripped his hand firmly.

“I’ll stop trying to touch you.” John said, feeling sheepish. “God, the signs were all there.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said in a deadpan voice, “it was pretty obvious. I wasn’t hiding the signs of a sexual assault very well.”

“You shouldn’t have hid them at all.”

Sherlock squeezed his hand.

“And I…shouldn’t have accused you of cheating. I’m sorry.” John said, wincing as the apology came out.

“I suppose in a mind like yours it was a logical conclusion.” Sherlock conceded. He brought John’s hand up to his own chest and rested it over his heart. John closed his eyes, grateful to feel that steady _thump-thump_ under his hand. The rape was horrific, yes, but Sherlock was alive. He wasn’t alone and John vowed to help him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tbc...The next couple chapters will be longer.


	6. Chapter 6

“I want to have sex.” Sherlock blurted one week later over breakfast. John glanced up from where he was reading the newspaper and blinked in surprise.

“Really? I mean, so soon?”

“It’s been _two weeks_!” Sherlock decided not to tell John about his masturbation failure a few days prior. Since Sherlock rarely masturbated, it made sense that his body wasn’t reacting properly without John’s presence. His body associated John with sex, so therefore, if he was going to have a successful sexual reaction he needed John to be there. Simple.

John closed the paper in a rustle of pages. He was pretty sure, no, _certain,_ that Sherlock wasn’t even remotely healed enough—physically or mentally— to try sex again, and frankly, neither was he.

“You’re not ready, love.” John said gently. “Your body is still recovering and I don’t want you to force yourself into anything.”

Sherlock frowned. “Am I correct in assuming that you would like our previous sexual routine to continue?”

“Well…yeah, but—”

“—then I’m ready.”

“Well I’m not.” John huffed.

“What do you mean?"

“I’m not ready for our ‘previous sexual routine to continue,’ as you put it.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes in confusion, regarding John. “I’m lost.”

“Flip the sentiment switch. My partner was raped. The man I love. That’s…difficult for me.”

Sherlock was quiet, thinking. “So…my getting raped is causing you distress to the degree that you do not want to have relations.” He clarified.

“Good job.” John said.

Sherlock looked deep in thought.

“We don’t need to rush anything.” John said. “There’s no time limit on when we can have sex again. I’ll still be here, no matter how long it takes.” John opened up the paper again and continued reading. Sherlock stood up and went around John to get his violin case, which was leaning on the armchair. He kissed John on the top of his head, smirking at the warm smile that flicked across his face.

They had a relaxed day at the flat. John had wanted to take a few days off work to be with Sherlock, and when he told Sarah what had happened, she gave him a month of paid leave. Sherlock didn’t want to leave the flat all day, and when John said he was going to watch a movie that night, Sherlock actually came to the sofa and snuggled up against his chest, falling asleep on his shoulder. That was some progress, John supposed, that Sherlock was initiating touch again.

John watched over the next few days as Sherlock continued to not leave the flat. John went to Tesco’s on their weekly food run, and Sherlock insisted on coming with. John would occasionally go to down to Speedy’s in the evening to get a coffee or something sweet, and inevitably as soon as he left he would hear the sound of Sherlock’s feet thumping down behind him on the steps. It was strange seeing Sherlock so willing to stay cooped up and so attached to him.

“Sherlock,” John said to the figure seated at the microscope, “how come you’re not leaving the flat?”

Sherlock went very still, then looked up. “I told Lestrade not to give me any cases for a couple weeks. I imagine he’ll be calling soon though…it’s been seventeen days since I was attacked.”

John winced and nodded. Fair enough. Sherlock didn’t want to come near any sort of situation like the one where he got raped.

“...and the webpage has been slow.”

“Ah. Normally you’d be crazy with boredom, that’s all.” John said.

“Yes, well.” Sherlock went back to the microscope. “I look forward to a case as much as always, however, nothing is quite normal now. I’m still cleaning house.” He gestured vaguely to his head and then steadied his fingers on the microscope knobs, twisting gently.

“Do you want to go to dinner?” John asked. _He_ was feeling bored. And hungry.

“Not hungry.”

“When are you ever hungry?"

Sherlock didn’t answer for a few moments, then he flipped off the microscope and stood, putting the slide in the fridge. “Sushi?”

"Sure.” John happily grabbed his coat, surprised Sherlock wanted to go. He thought for a moment, then went to the bedroom. He reached under Sherlock’s perfectly indexed socks and grabbed his Sig, double-checking to make sure it was loaded before hiding it in the inside pocket of his jacket. If they ran into trouble, John wanted to be prepared. No one was going to hurt Sherlock again. They’d have to kill John first.

Out on the street, Sherlock stayed very close to John. He placed himself furthest away from the street and walked right beside his partner, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his Belstaff coat and his scarf wrapped tightly around his neck even though it wasn’t all that cold out. Sherlock brushed against John as they walked and felt the hard metal of the gun in the coat.

“The Sig?” Sherlock murmured as they approached _Kyoto Sushi_.

“Doesn’t hurt to be too careful.” John murmured back.

The restaurant wasn’t crowded and Sherlock led the way, sitting at a booth in the corner with his back to the wall and a gigantic aqua fish tank at his right. John didn’t miss how Sherlock placed himself. He could survey the whole room and he had a clear view of the front door.

“Do you know what you’re getting?” John asked, looking at the menu.

“Not hungry.”

“I thought you wanted sushi—and you have to eat _something_.”

“Don’t want to.”

John sighed and ordered maki and edamame for both of them. If Sherlock didn’t eat now, they could take it home and he’d eat it later.

The door jingled and Sherlock’s eyes darted to the figure that walked in. Stocky build, sallow skin. Sherlock stiffened, his brain frantically throwing an image of his attacker up in his mind’s eye to compare it with this look-alike. The man was about the same height as his attacker, but Sherlock noticed instantly that his gait was different. His hair was different too and this guy was actually a little less brawny than his rapist. Despite noticing these differences, his brain was already going into a small panic and Sherlock had to restrain his fight-or-flight reflex. Sherlock focused on him as the man walked up to the counter at the front of the restaurant to pay for his take-away order.

_“Not your wallet I want…”_

The scent of cigarette smoke filled his nose and Sherlock winced, closing his eyes.

“Sherlock?” John’s voice broke through the unpleasant thoughts.

The bruises on Sherlock’s belly twinged and he rested his hand over them. John reached across the table, laying his hand beside Sherlock’s, blocking his view of the man and breaking his concentration.

“What?” Sherlock blinked and focused on John. The door dinged again as the customer left with his food.

“You okay? You’ve gone all white.” John sounded concerned. He slid his hand into Sherlock’s, touching fingers to fingers.

“Fine.” Sherlock said. His hand twitched, vaguely returning John’s gesture, before he pulled back. He cleared his throat and looked away, ashamed now that the man was gone. It wasn’t his attacker. But for a moment it had _really_ looked like him…

“Are you in pain?”

“No.” Sherlock grabbed his menu and held it up as if reading it, blocking his face from John’s.

“Sherlock…c’mon, don’t shut me out.” John said quietly. “Please?”

Sherlock sighed. He opened his mouth to speak, and the waitress came by with the food, putting it down on the table and wishing them a pleasant meal. It didn’t look like it was going to be very pleasant, though Sherlock noticed John had ordered his favorite spicy tuna and avocado roll. Sherlock was horrified to feel a tightness in his throat and eyes. _Seriously?_ He chided himself. _Falling apart at the sight of a bloody sushi roll just because John ordered it for me because John is perfect that way?_

“He looked like my attacker.” Sherlock murmured, staring at a glob of wasabi. His stomach rumbled hopefully and he looked away.

“Someone who came in here?” John asked carefully.

“Yeah.”

John turned around in his seat and eyed the front door. He subconsciously put his hand on his Sig and Sherlock smirked.  The thought of John killing a man for him made him calmer.

“That bastard better not dare show his face in this city ever again.” John murmured, his deep blue eyes darting around the room, systematically scanning it. Sherlock marveled silently at the change that had taken place before him. When John had sat down, he was calm and content, if not hungry. Now though, he was alert in his seat, his spine straight and his jaw tense as he looked for the thing threatening his mate. Civilian to soldier in the blink of an eye.

John ate a little, Sherlock ate even less and John requested a take-home container.

The first thing Sherlock did when they got back to the flat, after bolting the door firmly shut, was take a shower. The images from the attack were fresh and steady again, and bathing had taken on an ablutionary significance. Something about the hot clean water made the rape mildly easier to bear and somehow seemed to even shift the ooze dirtying his palace, draining a small amount of it away. Sherlock stepped into the sitting room afterwards, pajamas on and a towel around his shoulders to catch water from his wet head. The sheer curtains were pulled across the dark windows. He could see the yellow smiley face in the mirror above the skull. A small fire was crackling and the room smelled of wood smoke and fresh tea. John was sitting at the desk, his laptop open and a steaming mug in front of him. Sherlock watched the white glow on John’s face as he read the screen, oblivious to Sherlock’s presence, and he felt something deep inside him that had been disrupted become slightly more peaceful at the familiar scene. Dull, yes, but homey. Familiar. Everything here was in its proper place, now if only he could get his palace organized.

“There’s hot water.” John said, glancing up at him.

Sherlock fixed himself a mug of tea and sat across from John, flipping open his laptop and perusing his website. He hummed happily in his throat after a moment and started typing.

“What?” John asked absently.

“A case on my site.” Sherlock said.

“Oh? Interesting?”

“Not really.” Sherlock clicked a few more times. “Hacking.” He sent a note of acceptance to the victim.

“How well can you hack?”

“Well enough to handle this. I’ve hacked into your computer.”

“Yeah.” John muttered, “I remember.”

“I’ve hacked into phones. It’s not difficult when you know the process. Machines are wonderfully logical and simple.”

“Mm. Suppose not.” John’s answers were vague. He was typing at his blog, Sherlock could tell.

“What are you telling everyone?” Sherlock asked.

“Just saying that I don’t know how many cases we’ll be getting in the foreseeable future.” John said.

“Are you telling them why you’re not going to be reporting new cases?” Sherlock said. His voice sounded strained even to his own ears. He tried to cover it by drinking his tea.

“No.” John paused his typing and slid his eyes to Sherlock. “It’s none of anyone’s fucking business.”

Sherlock grinned and slouched down, propping his foot up on John’s leg under the table.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ANGST and music in this chapter.

“I _do not_ need bloody therapy.”

Sherlock’s fists were curled defiantly as he stared Mycroft down.

“It may help—”

“It may also be a load of bullocks.” Sherlock countered.

It was a couple days later, and they were in the sitting room. The Holmes brothers were standing, Mycroft near the front door and Sherlock next to John’s armchair. John and Lestrade were sitting on the sofa with their mugs of coffee, both knowing their respective Holmes well enough to know that now was a time to keep quiet and let the brothers’ verbal tiff continue uninterrupted.

“Sherlock.” Mycroft’s voice was soft. Soothing, even. It was a tone John didn’t hear much from the older man. “Consider it. Consider John.”

John put his mug on the table.

“John will agree with me!” Sherlock said. “He’s told me himself he thinks therapy is useless.”

“He’s only been to Ella, what, three times?” Mycroft said.

_Mycroft knows my therapist’s name?_ John thought, surprised.

“And he said it was useless.” Sherlock pressed.

“We could ask John what he thinks.” John said quietly to Lestrade. The officer smirked and sipped his coffee.

Mycroft aimed a severe look at John, silently telling him that now was the time to step in.

“Ah, uh, well…” John paused, gathering his mixed feelings about professional therapy.

“Thank you, John.” Sherlock said, his tone drier than the Sahara, “where would we be without _that_ brilliant bit of input.”

“I’m thinking!” John snapped.

“Oh,” Sherlock said, “is that why your face looks like that?”

“How have you not throttled him yet?” Lestrade asked John, sounding genuinely curious.

“Years of practice.” John answered. A faint grin colored his lips, despite the topic at hand. “We’ll consider it.” John told Mycroft. Though he didn’t say it, he knew that if Sherlock didn’t want to go to therapy, he wouldn’t go to therapy. Getting Sherlock to do something he didn’t want to do was like herding cats. Moody, narcissistic cats. And the last thing John wanted to do right now was force Sherlock into anything.

“No we won’t!” Sherlock yelled.

“Thank you, John.” Mycroft seemed pleased. “Here,” he held a business card out to John.

“Don’t give him that!” Sherlock said to Mycroft.

John took it and read the name. Doctor Nathan O’Brien.

“Don’t take it!” Sherlock snapped at John.

“Sherlock.” John said, turning to his lover—Sherlock walked into the kitchen, silently dismissing all of them. The bedroom door slammed seconds later.

“Petulant as always.” Mycroft muttered.

“He’s fine.” John said. “He just needs more time.” John put the card in his pocket. Who knew, maybe Sherlock would want it. If only just to burn it.

“How are _you_ holding up?” Lestrade asked.

John took a breath. “Alright. Things are a little tense at times, but so far it’s as fine as it can be, I suppose.” John thought of revealing how clingy Sherlock had gotten, but hesitated. It was all still a little too fresh and private, even for Mycroft and Lestrade.

“A step at a time.” Lestrade said. Mycroft glanced at his watch and flicked his eyes to Lestrade. The officer took the hint. He put his mug down and stood up. “I think we’re going to take off. Thanks for the coffee, John.”

“You’re welcome.” John smiled warmly and opened the door.

“If he gets unbearable,” Mycroft adjusted his burgundy scarf in a way that was so similar to Sherlock it was almost eerie, “give me a call. Day or night.”

“Thanks, Mycroft.”

“If you’re free sometime this week, John,” Lestrade said, “we should all go down to the pub. Get you both out of the house.”

“Yeah….yeah, Greg, that sounds good.” John said.

“JOHN!” Sherlock’s voice bellowed.

“Oh, I’m being paged.” John said.

Mycroft rolled his eyes, looking embarrassed for the family name. John closed and locked the door as their visitors left and he entered the bedroom. Sherlock was sprawled on the bed, on top of the covers.

“What?”

Sherlock turned his head and pouted, beckoning John to bed. John didn’t need any extra urging. Any initiation of contact on Sherlock’s part was fine with him. He lay down beside Sherlock, pleasantly surprised when the other man rolled over and burrowed his face into John’s neck. John automatically put his arms around Sherlock.

“You okay?” John asked. He closed his eyes, relishing the warm embrace.

“Don’t want therapy.” Sherlock murmured.

“It might help.” John said.

“I thought you said therapy was useless?”

“I didn’t go see Ella enough times.” John thought of Afghanistan and the echo of gunfire and the scent of hot sand. “Maybe I didn’t want the therapy to work.”

“Maybe she was a crap therapist.” Sherlock suggested.

“Whatever the reason, I’m not exactly a model patient.”

Sherlock grunted.

“Is it the therapy you’re averse to,” John asked, “or the fact that Mycroft suggested it?”

“Both.” Sherlock muttered.

“We don’t have to go.” John said. “ _You_ don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”

“Glad you agree.” Sherlock rolled out of John’s grasp and stared at the ceiling.

John snuck his hand into Sherlock’s, wanting to touch him. Sherlock allowed it.

“What…” John began, “can I help, Sherlock? I mean, is there anything I can do?” John braced himself for a sharp response, for Sherlock to tell him to leave him alone and let him be. Talking about feelings wasn’t a strong point for either of them.

“You’re here. That’s enough. Thank fuck too,” Sherlock muttered, disengaging his hand, “otherwise I’d be shooting up again in a gutter somewhere.” He kissed John’s cheek and rolled off the bed, heading for the sitting room.

* * *

 

John’s paid leave flew by, and all too soon he was waking up early on a drizzly Monday to shower and head back to the surgery. Forcing himself to leave was proving painfully difficult. It would be Sherlock’s first full day alone since the rape and John didn’t want to go. Damn bills wouldn’t pay themselves though, and John reluctantly got out of bed and headed for the shower. He was buttoning up a fresh shirt when Sherlock rolled over in the bed, teal eyes half open and watching him.

“Glad I don’t have to go out in the rain.” He said, pulling the warm sheet up to his chin for emphasis.

“Fuck off, you.” John murmured, smiling. “I’ll pour a bucket of cold water on your head.”

“No you won’t.”

John tucked his shirt into his trousers and adjusted his tie. “Sarah asked me to work at her friend’s surgery later this week.” He sat on the edge of the bed and reached for his shoes.

“Mm. Where?”

“Just off the Charing Cross stop. Depending on the days, I may be late coming home this week.” John felt a warm hand on his waist. He twisted around, “wha—”

Sherlock leaned up and grabbed John’s tie, pulling him down, giving him a warm, soft kiss on the lips. John happily returned it and Sherlock cupped John’s nape, gently massaging the tufts of hair at the base of his skull as he caressed and frankly fondled John’s tongue with his. Sherlock broke the kiss after a moment more and briefly nuzzled John’s face.

“Have a pleasant day at the surgery.” He broke away from John and rolled over, curling up back under the sheet and going still and silent.

John sat there for a few moments, ridiculously happy. Now he _really_ didn’t want to go to work, and, as he glanced down at his interested cock, that bucket of cold water sounded good.

“Love you too.” John murmured.

* * *

 

The surgery was insanely busy. It was like every sick person in the city had known John was coming back today and decided to pay him a visit and spray him with germs. The rain and wind lasted all day, worsening by late afternoon, and John’s umbrella blew inside out on the way home. He chucked the broken umbrella into Mrs. Hudson’s bins and squelched up the steps in 221B and pushed open the door, annoyed at the day but extremely glad to be home. He dropped his bag on the ground. It was filled with about a thousand year’s worth of paperwork—some time spent in the upstairs bedroom-cum-office tonight wouldn’t be a bad idea. The sitting room was dark and empty and John peeled out of his coat, not hearing Sherlock approach until the man was right behind him, kissing and sucking on John’s neck like it was an elixir of life.

“Hel-lo.” John hung the coat and turned around and was greeted by a warm mass of Sherlock. The man smelled of smoke and tea and the familiar heady scent went straight to John’s groin. He kissed Sherlock, his hands roving down over shoulders and ribs until he remembered that Sherlock maybe wouldn’t appreciate it. He stilled and Sherlock pushed him back up against the wall, groping his arse and rubbing his hip.

“We’re in a friendly mood…” John murmured as Sherlock nibbled his ear. Goosebumps erupted over John’s body and he hissed, his woefully ignored cock waking up, delighted at the return of his lover’s enthusiasm. John reached around and gripped Sherlock’s arse. He tilted his head and kissed his throat, nibbling until he was up to his ear. He licked the sensitive patch of skin there and Sherlock leaped back as if stung. John blinked at the sudden loss of his lover, his body crying out in a silent _no!_

“Sherlock?” John said. “What’s wrong, love?”

Sherlock was white as a sheet, his lips and hands trembling.

“Sherlock?” John asked again, stepping forward, “what—”

Sherlock glanced at him, his eyes terrified and distant, and darted away into the bedroom and shut the door. John stood still in the hall, his clothes rumpled and his neck still wet from where Sherlock had been mouthing him. “Fuck…” he mumbled. He smoothed a hand through his hair and went over to the bedroom door.

Sherlock didn’t bother locking it. He knew John wouldn’t barge on in. Sherlock paced in the small space, rubbing his forehead and trying to still his trembling hands. Images of the attack were popping through his head again. John’s hand on his backside and his hot breath over his ear…Sherlock flicked his hands, scattering the pictures and he forced himself to think of something else.

 “Sherlock?” John knocked once. “I’m sorry.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to assure John it was nothing, but he found his throat was tight. Growling, Sherlock rubbed his hands furiously through his hair. Why couldn’t he just delete the rape?! It was just an experience. It was just knowledge. He now knew what it was like to be raped, the same way he knew how to hack Lestrade’s phone and how to tell the difference among two hundred forty-three types of tobacco ash. So what was the problem here? Why did it keep on bloody distracting him? He’d spent the entire day going through his palace and cataloguing where everything needed to be repaired. Why couldn’t it just be fixed? The word ‘therapy’ popped into his head and he hissed, dismissing it. He didn’t want therapy. He just had to deal with this. Deconstruct it. Break it down like a puzzle. Sherlock settled on the bed and delved back into the palace.

Not ten feet away in the kitchen, John mechanically fixed himself a cup of tea. He didn’t really want it, but it was as good a thing as any to do. What on earth had happened? John purposely had stayed away from touching Sherlock’s cock, and Sherlock was being pretty adamant about being touched, right? John thought about how Sherlock had come out of nowhere to fondle and hug him. There was no way John misinterpreted his intentions, but when he reciprocated, Sherlock bolted. Maybe he was too forward. Maybe he shouldn’t have grabbed Sherlock’s butt. Whatever it was, it had been wrong. John took the tea and his bag and computer upstairs. Sherlock obviously wanted to be alone, and John foresaw a night sleeping on the sofa in the very near future.

John put the bag down beside the desk and opened his computer. He found himself typing ‘rape recovery’ into the search box and clicking through the results. He read about rape and the results of rape and about how it could take months or even years for survivors to heal from the trauma. Some people reported still being triggered some thirty years later. John revised his search and found a professional-looking forum in neutral tones of green and grey. It had areas with specific info on male rape and John registered and started reading.

* * *

 

The silence of the office (save the outside traffic and the clank of the old building’s pipes) was soon interrupted by a mournful wail on the violin. John paused, mid-post, as the saddest song John had ever heard Sherlock play rose up through the floorboards. He looked at the clock—almost two hours had passed! John closed the laptop lid and sat, listening. The notes settled in his chest, seeming to weep there, filling him with a heavy ache. John rubbed a hand across his forehead. Sherlock didn’t express his emotions in words, not like any mere mortal did. No, Sherlock could snark and Sherlock could deduce, but the violin gave voice to his heart and John wanted to weep at the pain his soul mate was enduring.

He got up, carefully, and crept down the stairs. Sherlock was framed at the window, silhouetted by the clear sky and setting sun. It was like the rain had cast off just for him to play this piece. Long beams of firey orange light fell over Sherlock, making his dark hair glow at the edges with auburn. John watched, transfixed as Sherlock drew the gold-red bow up and down the strings, lingering and pulling, making the violin sob. John felt his heart creep up in his throat as Sherlock's long left fingers dabbed the neck, his bow caressing the instrument. He stood there for the full song, watching as the last notes faded away as the sun slunk behind the buildings. Sherlock set the violin down on the sofa after a moment and froze when he saw John standing at the edge of the room. John didn't say anything. He simply stood, trying to look as unthreatening as possible. Not hard to do, considering he was wearing a striped shirt and a knit cardigan and felt tired as hell. Sherlock swallowed, his eyes shining with tears. He took two strides to John and hugged him hard, desperately. John returned the embrace, nearly moved to tears himself.

 “We’ll get through it.” John said. “Together, we’ll get through it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ll leave it up to the reader to fill in whatever piece of music they want for what Sherlock was playing, but I had "Adagio in G Minor" by Albinoni in mind.
> 
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XMbvcp480Y4


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for “A Study in Pink”  
> Not quite as much angst from here on out. Some Mystrade in this chapter :)

_Sherlock opened his eyes. He was in a small white room. There were no doors. No windows. The ceiling was low and the whole place was claustrophobic and unnaturally, superficially bright. He tried to move, then realized he was sitting on a wooden chair in the center of the room, his ankles bound to the legs and his wrists bound fast and tight behind him. He tugged. Nothing budged._

_There was a gurgling sound, then water seeped up through the floor and down from the join where ceiling met wall. The room was filling. Sherlock tugged again at his bonds, but the chair was fastened to the floor._

_"John!” He yelled. No response. The water was knee level and cold and black. Sherlock, panicky now, tugged at his bonds again. The water came up to his chest. “John!” He yelled again, hearing the fear in his voice. He yelled for John one more time before the water enveloped his head. He thrashed, still fastened tight as ever to the chair. His nose filled. His lungs burned. Everything around him was the cold roar of water._

             “John!” Sherlock startled awake, his chest achingly tight and his head pounding. He took a deep breath of air—sweet wonderful air—and was aware of John beside him in bed rousing and groping for the light on the bedside table.

            “Sherlock.” John mumbled sleepily. Golden light flooded from the lamp, washing away the feeling of drowning. “What happened? Nightmare?”

            Sherlock sat up and put his feet on the floor, annoyed to feel himself trembling. John put a hand on his shoulder and Sherlock winced away from it, standing and starting to pace.

            “Sorry.” John blurted.

            “It’s okay, it’s fine.” Sherlock paced some more, trying to clear his head. Every time he managed to push away the bright room, the face of his attacker took its place. Sherlock hissed and walked out into the hall. A thump behind him told him John was following. Sherlock poured himself a mug of water and drank it, aware of John’s presence in the kitchen doorway. Sherlock was surprised that he wasn’t annoyed by John following after him, _like I’m some damsel in distress, right?_ John was safe, though. John was home. If he was there, that meant things would be okay.

             “Do you want to go for a walk?” John asked.                                               

              Sherlock blinked, not expecting that.

             “Get out of the flat,” John continued, “get out of your head.”

             Sherlock felt himself nodding. A walk in the moonlight and the cold nighttime air sounded pretty good actually. He hadn’t left the flat in ages, and he found he wanted to get away from the familiar walls and clear the ache. Clear the ooze.

             Minutes later the pair of them, clad in pajamas, shoes and coats, were striding down the pavement. There were no people out, giving the normally busy Baker Street an eerie, abandoned feel. A lone taxi drove past once and a while, slowing, hoping for a fare. John waved them on, feeling strangely alive. Sherlock felt the churning images of the nightmare and rape quieting and fading with every step they took, being replaced with a sense of calm. They came to the edges of Regent’s Park and moved on, keeping up a healthy pace. The yellow lights surrounding the college were hazy in the thin blanket of fog in the air. The pair’s breaths puffed as they walked, not saying a word or seeing another soul.    

              They ended up at the edge of the park’s little lake, at the edge of a tiny dock surrounding by a chain and metal railing. Sherlock paused and curled his gloved hands on the metal railing, staring into the shimmering water. They stood there in silence until the edges of the sky turned grey-pink with dawn and erased the stars. Traffic picked up. Shops on the main road opened their doors. Sherlock exhaled a plume of cold smoke. The nightmare had faded for good into the dark recesses of his palace.

             “Thank you, John.” He said as sincerely as he could manage. The man was a wonder, truly.

             “You’re welcome.” John said. “Nightmares and I go way back. I know a thing or two about dealing with them.”

              “You haven’t had one in a while.” Sherlock said.

              “No…not since we started up.”

               Sherlock didn’t say anything.

              “Tired?” John asked.

              “Not at all. You?”

              “Want to get breakfast?”

              Sherlock thought for a moment. He actually was feeling a little hungry. “Lead the way.”

* * *

 

              Later that evening, John, Sherlock, Lestrade, and Mycroft were having after-dinner drinks a nearby pub. Lestrade had texted John, asking if he wanted to go out for a pint. Two turned to four, turned to dinner at a French restaurant (Mycroft’s suggestion) followed by drinks. John had more or less begged Sherlock to come with, seeing as he had no corpses to dash off to and examine and no vials of pig blood that needed bits of acid dropped into. Sherlock had finished the hacking case a few hours ago, (“Amateur.” Sherlock sniffed, closing his laptop. “The victim’s own little brother was the culprit, hacking his phone and personal website. I’m amazed he didn’t see it himself, but then, people are idiots.”) and was now pacing around like a restless dog. Despite the begging, John was impressed Sherlock had come along—Mycroft was involved after all, but John supposed Sherlock was glad to get out of the flat. And as far as John was concerned, this was a step in healing’s direction, even if Sherlock did still linger close to John’s side. The evening had been going surprisingly smoothly so far.

            “Sherlock,” Mycroft said, “did you look into that therapist I recommended?”

             So much for smooth.

            Sherlock leveled an Anderson-worthy look of distaste at his brother and pointedly looked away, watching a waiter collect orders three tables away from them.

           “That is none of your business.” He snipped.

            “Sherlock, I care—we all do—”

            “Then leave me be about this!” Sherlock hissed at Mycroft. Lestrade shifted and idly played with the drinks coaster. John sipped his lager. He thought Sherlock had a point. Mycroft, as well-intended as his intentions were, didn’t need to know the finer points of the assault. John had known for a while now that professional therapy wasn’t going to happen. He knew enough about therapy and enough about Sherlock to know that music and solving cases were going to be Sherlock’s therapy. A few more late night walks might not be remiss, either. Mycroft huffed, annoyed, and Sherlock resumed people watching, completely ignoring his companions.

            “How are things at the Yard, Greg?” John asked, eager to change the subject. “Any cases Sherlock can take?” John knew he was taking a risk suggesting this. Sherlock had purposely told Lestrade to not give him cases for a bit. To John’s relief though, Sherlock turned his attention to the pair.

           “Nothing new, no. We’re working on a domestic. Found a man murdered in his own home. Wife nowhere to be found.”

            Mycroft’s phone rang. He glanced at the ID and excused himself to answer it.

            “Bit obvious, isn’t it?” Sherlock said, still not looking at them.

            “Oh?” Lestrade sounded annoyed. “Solving cases without even going to the scenes now?”

            “Surely even you lot couldn’t miss it. The wife was almost surely having an affair and didn’t want her husband to find out. She’s probably planning on moving abroad with her lover and stupidly decided to kill her husband to collect insurance. Dull. Predictable. Look into her emails.”

             Sherlock finished speaking and stood up, walking off towards the toilets without another word.

             “Sounds like he’s feeling better about solving cases.” Lestrade groused. “We were going to check the computer hard drive _anyway_ …”

             John smiled softly.

            “I’m glad I got you alone, John.” Lestrade said.

            “Oh?”

            “We, uh, we found the place where he was attacked.” Greg said quietly.

            “Did you find _him_?” John said. He imagined the warehouse, imagining Sherlock alone there getting fucking raped and he felt his blood boil. If he ever saw Sherlock’s attacker…the man would not get out of the encounter alive.

            “No.” Greg said. “Sherlock gave us a sketch though—and a damn good one. Even if I did find him, you think I’d tell you?”

            John pinned him with a cool stare.

           “Hey, I know what you’d do to the bastard, John. I know about your gun.” He picked up his glass and brought it to his lips. “And I already let the cabbie shooting slide. Can’t keep covering up killings for you, even if they are in self-defense…” He drank.

           John’s ears went pink with embarrassment and relief.

           “You know about the cabbie?” John said.

           “ ‘Course. Sherlock described you to a tee, and you were standing _right there_ for God’s sake. I may not be as clever as Sherlock, but I am a detective.”

           “I know. Yes, I know. Sorry.” John apologized hastily, not wanting to insult the man who could arrest him and throw him jail at this very moment.

           Lestrade grinned briefly, then sobered. “There was no evidence other than Sherlock’s smashed phone. We’re running it for prints.”

           “Maybe you’ll get lucky.” John took a sip of his lager and fantasized about how many bullets he could pump into the motherfucker before he died.

           “Maybe we will.” Lestrade said. His tone suggested he was reading John’s mind.

           “My apologies.” Mycroft strolled up to the table, his attention on the text he was currently typing.

           “Diverting World War Three is a twenty-four hour job.” John said, a grin playing at his lips.

           “Indeed.” Mycroft didn’t return the mirth and John hoped he wasn’t correct. Mycroft slipped his phone into his pocket. “Where’s my charming brother?”

            Greg nodded at the toilets, where Sherlock was now striding back from.

            Mycroft sat, and the waitress came up to the table. “Anything else I can get for you gentlemen?” She aimed a particularly warm smile at John and looked away demurely when Lestrade started wondering out loud about ordering an appetizer to share. She was pretty, a red head with pale freckled skin and a heart-shaped face. Sherlock maneuvered around her to get to his seat, placing himself between her and John. She glance shyly back up at John and John couldn’t help but smile. She was probably barely older than twenty. He was old enough to be her father, yet here she was flirting with him. It was adorable and flattering. Sherlock saw her coy smile and John’s polite half smirk and an irrational wave of jealousy washed over him, the waves bearing a dark little voice. _Why shouldn’t he look and wonder? You obviously can’t provide for him the bedroom—you can’t even wank into the sink without breaking down trembling. He’s right to look elsewhere for satisfaction._

“Do you need a top-up, cutie?” She asked John. His grin widened and he held his half-empty glass to her. “Sure—,” he glanced at her name tag, “Angela.”

Sherlock popped out of his seat _._

“Let’s go, John.” He said.

            “What?—Already?” John spluttered.

            “Yes.” Sherlock gave Angela a stony glare and glanced her over. John could already see the cutting observations forming in his head and a little cruel smile on his face.

            “No, Sherlock, don’t—!”

            “So _Angela_ , your boyfriend left you, what, three weeks ago? He was older than you by six years—probably dumped you for someone more established and successful. You know, _not_ a waitress.”

            “I…what?” Angela blinked at Sherlock, then her cheeks reddened in embarrassment.

            “You’ve gained weight as a result—binge eating is never a good idea—and you’re hoping to meet someone at your job. John here is an excellent mate, I can attest to that myself, but he is, unfortunately, definitely not available.”

            Angela’s eyes shone with tears. “I just…” she glanced at John, “I didn’t—how do you know this?!”

            “Sherlock.” John said coldly.

            “No doubt you’ve been consulting dieting magazines and websites, generally feeling shitty about yourself and hoping that the expensive make-up you’ve purchased is enough to cover the spots that have broken out across your face.”

            “Sherlock!” John yelled. “Enough.”

            Sherlock stormed away, out of the pub.

            “I’m so sorry…” John apologized profusely to Angela, who was teetering on the edge of a hysterical crying fit.

            “He’s like that with everyone, dear.” Mycroft consoled, “you mustn’t think yourself special.”

            “I work with him, he’s a right dick.” Lestrade drained his glass.

            Angela seemed to calm slightly at their words. John gave her a huge apology, an even bigger tip, and slipped on his coat.

            “Sorry for the show, guys.” He muttered.

            Mycroft waved him off as he and Lestrade stood and put on their coats as well. “No apology necessary, John. If you apologized every time he was rude, it would become a full-time occupation and you’d have to quit the surgery.”

            John left the pub and went out into the cool, wet night, wondering what had gotten into Sherlock. Even if he was upset with Angela for flirting, what he had said was just too much.

            Sherlock was nowhere to be seen, and it had started to rain. What a fitting end to the evening. John took a cab home and was relieved to hear piercing violin music emanating out of the sitting room. Sherlock sometimes wandered the streets when he was in a snit, and John wasn’t in the mood to worry about where Sherlock was and wonder if he was safe. No, he wanted Sherlock at the flat so he could yell at him properly.

            Sherlock was by the fireplace, a tangle of notes flying off the bow.

            “What the hell was that?” John asked, slamming the door.

            “What?” Sherlock shrugged his shoulders and the volume and irritation level of the instrument increased.

            “You know damn well what! At the pub.”

            Sherlock didn’t stop playing and John stormed over to him, intent on grabbing the violin away from him. Sherlock lowered the instrument.

            “She was flirting with you!” Sherlock yelped.

            “So!?” John cried.

            “I didn’t like it.” Sherlock sneered. He put the violin on the mint green armchair and moodily faced the window.

            “Sherlock,” John rolled his eyes. “Did you think something was going to happen between me and _the waitress_?”

            “No.” Sherlock scoffed. _But I can’t provide for him, remember?_ “I don’t know.”

            John softened his voice. “She was half my age. Love, I’m not going to leave you.”

            “Maybe you should.” Sherlock said it so quietly John thought he misheard him.

            “What?”

            “I clearly can’t provide for you, so maybe you should find someone who can.”

            A hot gnarl of irritation burst up in John’s chest. Seriously, it was like Sherlock wasn’t even listening to him.

             “I’m not with you because you’re a convenient bed warmer.” John forced himself to keep his voice on an even keel. He wasn’t sure it was working.  “I love _you,_ dammit. We can work through this.”

            “What about the other day—when you got home from work?” Sherlock said.

            “What…when you kissed me?”

            Sherlock nodded vigorously, his arms crossed tight.

            “What about it?” John asked.

            “You clearly wanted intercourse, and I…” Sherlock took a breath. He didn’t know what to say, how to articulate. He wasn’t good with these sodding _feelings._

“I thought you wanted to snog for a bit.” John said, just as confused now as he was then. He clenched his fists as his sides. “I wasn’t expecting _sex,_ Sherlock—I told you we’ll wait as long as it takes. You came up to me and were all hands and tongue. I thought you were horny—what was I supposed to think? You initiated it!”

            “Sorry, John.” Sherlock said, sarcasm evident in his voice as he stared out the window into the rainy darkness. “Sorry for being too broken for you to handle.”

            John straightened, clenching his jaw. “That’s not fair, Sherlock. I’ve been trying to handle this and be there for you. You’re not _broken,_ for God’s sake, you’re—both of us—are dealing with the assault. If I’ve done a poor job, then I apologize for that.”

            Sherlock didn’t say anything, he just continued staring out the window, his shoulders tense. 

            John took a step towards him, but before he could get close Sherlock jerked away. “Leave it, John.” He snapped. “Leave me alone.”

            “Fine.” John turned on his heel and headed for the stairs. Sherlock wanted to be a prickly, stubborn son of a bitch, fine. John wanted to play nice, he wanted to try and work it out, but it seemed he’d be better off prying out his own teeth out that getting the mulish detective to open up tonight. He went to the closet in his office that still housed many of his clothes. Sherlock had a giant wardrobe, and there simply wasn’t room in the closet downstairs. He grabbed some items haphazardly and threw them in a bag before jogging back downstairs. Sherlock was still at the window.

            “Call me when you’re ready to talk.” John didn’t break stride as he _thump_ ed down the steps and out into the dark, cold rain.

* * *

 

            “You think they’re alright?” Lestrade asked Mycroft. The pair was in bed, a book in each of their hands. After they started dating, they moved in Mycroft’s posh flat in the heart of the city, mainly because the location was convenient for both of them and because it was much nicer than Lestrade’s little place forty minutes outside the city. The flat was small and nicely furnished. The size was perfect considering how little time each man spent in it given their respective jobs. They were mostly there just to sleep.

            “Hm?” Mycroft turned a page. 

            “John and Sherlock.”

            “Oh, I’m sure they’re fine.” Mycroft said. He opened his mouth to say more, but stopped.

            “But…?” Lestrade prompted.

            “But I worry for Sherlock, despite what he thinks.”

            “I know.” Lestrade said. “You care.”

            Mycroft stuck his bookmark in the binding and closed the novel. “I wish he’d try the therapy. Doctor O’Brien is really very good…”

            “It’s not like you can force him.” Lestrade found Mycroft’s pajama-clad thigh under the sheets and rested his hand on it.

            Mycroft seemed to consider this. “I could try.”

            “I think it’d be easier getting Sherlock and Anderson to hug.”

            Mycroft met Lestrade’s hand and Lestrade leaned over to kiss him. Mycroft broke away to murmur, “I love you. If anything ever happened to you…”

            “Hush.” Lestrade said, his voice husky. “I’m alright. I’m right here and Sherlock’ll get through this. We all will.” Mycroft returned Lestrade’s kiss and wrapped his hand around the man’s hip, inching over to his crotch. The doorbell buzzed just then, breaking the moment.

            “Who on earth?” Mycroft murmured. They both stood and wrapped dressing gowns on before heading for the speaker by the flat’s front door.

            “Yes?” Lestrade said into it.

            _“It’s me_.” A familiar voice crackled through.

            “John?” Mycroft sounded startled.

            “Is everything alright?” Lestrade asked.

            _“I…yes.”_ John said, the wash of rain surrounding his voice. _“I don’t know.”_

“Come on up, John.” Mycroft said firmly.

* * *

 

            John was soon feeling much better sitting in a warm kitchen wearing dry socks and cradling a mug of steaming tea. He told them an abbreviated version of the argument.

            “Was I right to leave? He seemed like he needed space. And he was pissing me off. I mean, he’s got to know that I’d never really leave him, right?”

            “He knows.” Mycroft said.

            “‘Course he does.” Greg said. “He’s just, recovering.”

John rubbed his hand through his damp hair and stifled a yawn.

            “I’ll go fix up the couch.” Greg said. He left the room and Mycroft sat down at the table across from John.

            “John.” He said. The doctor looked up, the weight of two dozen night’s worth of worry evident on his face. “You’re the best thing that’s happened to him, probably ever. He’s lucky to have you and he appreciates you, even if he is a caustic child most of the time.”

            John nodded, feeling slightly better.

            Lestrade returned and brought John to the front room. A plushy sofa and a leather armchair were situated around a dark fireplace. The sofa was covered in blankets and fluffy pillows and John collapsed gratefully down, setting his phone alarm for the next morning. He’d go in a little late. He wanted to see Sherlock again before going to work—oh bloody hell, he told Sarah he’d work at the other surgery tomorrow for her friend. One of her regular doctors was apparently, ironically, sick with the flu. John closed his eyes, feeling even more tired now. He would definitely be a little late. Sarah would understand. John murmured a “thank you” at Lestrade and promptly fell asleep.

            In the kitchen, Mycroft’s phone buzzed with a text.

            _Is he there? –SH_

_Yes. – MH_

No more texts came and Mycroft slipped the phone into his pocket before taking Greg’s hand to go back to bed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tbc...


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More semi-graphic assault description in this chapter. Nothing worse than what’s already happened though.

John slipped quietly into 221B early the next morning and crept into the bedroom. He had changed for work at Mycroft’s and was all set to go in. He just needed to grab his bag from the office, make sure he had his oyster card for the Tube, and to see his lover. John tiptoed upstairs and retrieved the bag; the card was in there and he set it all on the floor beside the stairs. He crept down the short hallway and pushed open the bedroom door and glanced inside. Sherlock was on his back, one arm sprawled into John’s half of the mattress. The cream sheet was pulled halfway up his body, revealing a bare chest. John noted vaguely that it was the first time since the assault that Sherlock had slept in his usual sans-clothing. That was a good sign. The yellowing bruises across his belly were much fainter now and his breathing was even and peaceful and John relaxed, glad to have the visual confirmation that Sherlock was safe and sound. He backed up and pulled the door closed—

            “John?”

            John pushed the door open again and met Sherlock’s sleepy eyes. Sherlock beckoned him in and John happily crawled across the bed towards him. Sherlock pulled John down and kissed him like it was the last time it would ever happen. It felt sublime. John wanted nothing more than to have passionate make-up sex and tell his job to go to hell for a day, but there was no way that was in the cards. John monitored his response to Sherlock’s kisses, not reciprocating too much. Last night was still very fresh.

            “I made you angry.” Sherlock said.

            “That’s okay.”

            “I was an arsehole last night.”

            “Yes you were.”

            Sherlock kissed him again. “But you came back.”

            “I’ll always come back.” John kissed the back of Sherlock’s hand and scrabbled out of bed. Sherlock was asleep before John closed the door. 

 

* * *

 

            Sherlock woke up for real a few hours later, ravenous for a case. It had been _ages_. He’d been cooped up in this damn flat long enough. The hacking case, simple as it was, had sparked a new interest in getting back out on scenes and getting back into the swing of his life. _No John today, though_ , he reminded himself. Though he always felt better with John at his side, today he’d have to make an exception. He paused. Was he ready for that? Yes, he decided. The world’s only consulting detective didn’t need John to hold his hand all the time. Sherlock grabbed the phone off his bedside table and texted Lestrade.

            _Was I right about the domestic case? –SH_

_Yeah. Checked the emails. She had a lover. –GL_

“Ha!” Sherlock grinned smugly, fingers flying.

            Halfway across London, Greg was in a police car being driven by a wildly focused Donovan. Lestrade held onto the passenger door handle with one hand while Sally swung around street corners, the siren blaring. Greg rolled his eyes at the phone, clenching his fist around it as Sally accelerated across a bridge over the river. He could imagine how smug Sherlock was feeling and he was glad Sherlock wasn’t right in front of him to gloat.

            _Any new cases? –SH_

            Greg hesitated. They were heading for a scene right now. The initial officers on the scene reported a woman who had gotten murdered. There was also evidence of rape. There was no way Lestrade was going to let Sherlock come near here.

            _Nothing interesting. – GL_

That should satisfy him. Sherlock only ever came out for the weird ones. He slipped his phone into his pocket, tensing as Sally swerved around a bus. His phone chimed and he read the new text.

            _I’m going insane with boredom. Text me the address. –SH_

Lestrade let out a frustrated sigh and texted back a lie.

            _Really, Sherlock, it’s dull. Even I think it’s dull, so it would probably actually kill you. –GL_

The phone stayed quiet as they reached their destination and Greg hoped Sherlock would stay away. The crime scene, an alley behind an Indian restaurant, was gruesome. The body was of a young woman, her clothes ripped and half off below the waist. Her brunette hair was in a tangle, her blue eyes open and cold. Lestrade rubbed his forehead. It never got any easier. Twenty minutes later, Greg saw a familiar tall, raven-haired figure striding up to the caution tape.

            “Shit.” He muttered. He excused himself and strode towards Sherlock, muttering curses to himself. He wasn’t even surprised the detective had showed. He’d just come off a hacking case, no doubt he’d simply found Lestrade’s phone via some GPS code or such.

            “I told you not to come.” Lestrade called.

            “And I told you I was bored.” Sherlock stood on the opposite side of the tape, grinning at Lestrade, his hands stuffed in his pockets to ward off the chill. Lestrade didn’t know whether it was feigned bravado or if Sherlock really had pushed past his own rape to the degree that he was comfortable being out at a crime scene on his own. Somehow, Lestrade didn’t think it was the latter.

            “Sherlock.” Greg dropped his voice. “Please. Go.”

            “Why?” Sherlock was instantly suspicious. “Why do you want to get rid of me, Inspector?”

            He didn’t respond and Sherlock ducked under the tape, striding up the alley.

            “Dammit, Sherlock.” Lestrade jogged after him as Sherlock pushed past Donovan and stared down at the body. He licked his lips, taking in every nuance, every angle of every limb, aware of how easily this could have been him. The greasy ooze in his palace shifted, darkening his thoughts. Sherlock closed his eyes, trying to block the sick feeling in his gut and the phantom sensations of that bastard’s hands on his body…

            “I didn’t want you to see.” Greg said, a hint of an apologetic plead in his voice. Sherlock opened his eyes. His face was a stone mask as his keen teal eyes flicked up and down over the body, cataloguing and deducing.

            “Why?” Sherlock snipped. “Because this woman was not only raped like I was, but also murdered?”

            He was so matter-of-face about it, so emotionless to Lestrade’s ears that he couldn’t help flinching.

            “I’m not some frail creature that needs to be protected, Greg.” Sherlock crouched and observed, and Lestrade closed his eyes. This was bad. Sherlock really shouldn’t be here.

            “Sherlock,” he said in his police voice, “leave, or I’ll arrest you myself for trespassing.”

            Sherlock snorted. “No you won’t. Do that, and then let your Chief Superintendant know why your solve rate is suddenly at rock bottom.” Sherlock slid his eyes away from the body and smirked infuriatingly at Lestrade. “Nice try, but I’m not leaving.” Sherlock pulled on some gloves and felt the woman’s ripped shirt.

Fumbling, Greg flipped open his phone and texted John.

            _He’s at a scene. A rape victim. He won’t leave. –GL_

Approximately thirty seconds later, Sherlock’s phone chimed. He ignored it. Moments later it chimed again. Still he ignored it. After the third musical _ding_ Sherlock grabbed it, growling. He read the text.

            “Very mature, Greg.” Sherlock said sarcastically, “calling in _John_ to yell at me now?”

            Sherlock put the phone away and went back to the body. It rang after a moment and Sherlock stood up with a curse. He yanked it out of his coat and jabbed the ‘talk’ button.

            “I’m on a case, John!” He said by way of greeting. “Yes!...yes…” Sherlock rolled his eyes and walked away towards a more private location.

            _“Sherlock, please go home.”_ John said.

            “The walls are caving in on me. I need a case or I’ll go mad.”

            _“I understand that, but not this one.”_ John was begging now. _“I’ll go out right now and murder someone, then leave the pieces of the body in wildly creative places for you to travel all over the continent to find—just so you Leave. That. Scene.”_

“You’d do that for me?” Sherlock said, a content pool of warmth spreading in his belly. It was one of the sweetest things John had ever said. Sherlock also thought, with a modicum of respect, that John could possibly be a decent criminal if he put his mind to it.

            _“Yes! Now go back to the flat. I’ll leave work early today and I’ll try to be there when you get home. We can go to the hospital and talk Molly into getting you some body parts—and maybe we can take a drive and find some road kill for you to ruin the microwave with.”_

Vague interest sparked in Sherlock’s brain. John could possibly prove to be a mild distraction to the painful boredom. And nothing cheered him up like new pieces of body, human or otherwise. The idea of John leaving work early to be with him was pleasing, and Sherlock finally conceded. “Do what you want.”

            _“Thank you.”_ John sounded relieved and Sherlock grinned, hanging up. He slid the phone back in his pocket and started heading back towards where Lestrade stood nervously.

            “Good-bye, Lestrade.” Sherlock walked past him, ducked under the tape, and started striding away. Lestrade breathed a sigh of relief, wondering what John had said to make him leave…then deciding that actually, maybe he didn’t want to know. Sherlock slowed, then stopped. Lestrade watched curiously as Sherlock seemed to think about something for a moment, then turn around and come back to the tape.

            “Forget something?” Lestrade asked.

            “Have you heard anything?” Sherlock asked, his voice low even though no one was nearby.

            “About what?”

            Sherlock stared at Lestrade.

            “Oh, from the sketch you gave us?”

            Sherlock nodded once and broke eye contact, turning up his coat collar to the breeze.

            “No.” He said. He paused, then, “found the broken phone. Even with the swabs, though…nothing matched.”

            Sherlock picked some lint off his arm. “You won’t find him.”

            “I wouldn’t give up hope yet.” Lestrade said, trying to be encouraging. He wasn’t sure if he sounded convincing. He knew, statistically and realistically, that the chances of actually finding the guy were about nil. Weeks had passed already, and rape cases were never promising to begin with. The guy could be anywhere in the world by now. “We may still—oh Christ, you and John didn’t find and murder him, did you?”

            Sherlock barked out a bitter laugh. “If we had, do you really think I would have brought up the subject at all? Use your brain, Lestrade, slow as it is.”

            Lestrade wanted to refute Sherlock, to promise him they’d find the guy and he’d rot in prison for the rest of his life, but the thirty years he’d spent as a copper kept him from making that promise. He hesitated and Sherlock smirked.

            “Out of every one hundred rapes, half are reported.” Sherlock said, in his usual rapid-fire crime scene speed. “Out of that? Twelve lead to an arrest, nine get prosecuted and three spend time in jail—I’m sure I’m telling you nothing you don’t already know. Three, Lestrade. I’m not naïve.”

            Sherlock turned and started walking away again.

            “We _may_ still get him.” Lestrade called, wincing.

            Sherlock glanced back and kept walking. “Keep believing that, Inspector. I hope it works out for you.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tbc…  
> To my tube-riding readers, if you could be so kind—was mentioning an oyster card here correct? I looked it up, but was still not 100% certain.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: It’s been brought to my attention that what takes place in this chapter could not possibly take place (d’oh!) so I’m going to come back and fix it once the story is complete. The outcome of the chapter will be more or less the same though. I apologize in advance to all the readers who are familiar with the Tube, lol.

John jogged up to the train’s open doors, slipping into first car just as they slid closed behind. He glanced around and saw that every seat was taken. He shuffled further into the car and grabbed one of the silver poles for balance and peered at the Tube map bolted to the wall. He was at Charing Cross, and he only had a couple stops until he could get off at Baker Street. John licked his lips. Hopefully Sherlock went straight home. He shouldn’t have gone to the rutting crime scene in the first place, but John understood. Sherlock had been in the flat forever and if was clamoring for cases, he must be feeling better. John really hoped Molly had some body parts to give up.

The train started moving and John’s eyes fell onto two men a few feet away from him who were standing near the driver. They looked decidedly shifty. The way they were standing, or the way they had their hands concealed in the pockets of their thick coats was just…off. John’s military sense kicked into gear and he watched as one man nodded minutely to the other. John had a bad feeling in his stomach before the second man reached up and pulled the emergency stop pulley. The train came to a screeching halt. At the same time, the lights flickered off and the bright emergency bulbs switched on, casting them all in dim, shadowy light.

* * *

 

Sherlock was pacing furiously in the flat, his dressing gown fluttering in his wake. Where the hell was John? He should have been here ages ago—even with the added Tube ride. The surgery was only a couple stops away.  Sherlock was just about to leave to go the hospital on his own when his phone chimed with a text.

_Turn on the news. –MH_

Sherlock turned the telly on, revealing a chaotic-looking Piccadilly Tube stop. The words ‘train taken hostage’ were stamped on the bottom of the screen, along with smaller words: ‘unknown suspect hijacks Bakerloo line between Charing Cross and Piccadilly.’ Police were guiding pedestrians away from the station. Yellow tape was strung up and lots of people looked concerned. Worry flooded through Sherlock. John. That was the line John was taking. He was running late—he must be on that train. If he was stuck there, God forbid if he was hurt…

 _“I’ll always come back.”_ John’s words from yesterday morning replayed in his head and if John was stuck on that hijacked train and if he _couldn’t_ come back…

Nanoseconds later, Sherlock was moving. He went to the bedroom and slipped John’s Sig out from the sock drawer. He made sure it was loaded before concealing it in the special pocket in his coat that he’d had put in for such an occasion. He grabbed one hundred quid in two fifty pound notes and bolted out the door, a plan forming in his head, his steps fueled by the words _get John, get John…_

He took a cab to the Piccadilly stop and scanned the crowd. Police directing traffic and talking into headsets. Concerned pedestrians. It was all very orderly and no one paid attention to him. Good. Sherlock slipped away from the noisy crowd and down a less busy side street. He saw one of his favorite homeless network crew panhandling beside some bins. She glanced up at him as he strolled up to her.

“Got any change?” She asked with a grin, shaking her cup.

Sherlock pulled out a fifty pound note. “Merida.” He smiled, “can I trouble you for some assistance?”

* * *

 

 _Stupid, stupid…_ John was sitting on the train’s floor, his knees up and his bag between his calves. Everyone else was seated similarly, crowding the floor in the half-lit train. Some people were crying, but most were just wary and scared. Each man had pulled out a gun and knife as soon as the lights went down and the train stopped, forcing everyone to the floor. John was quick to obey the commands. One glance told him the guns were real. There were too many people on the train for him to try and subdue the men, and anyway, he was outnumbered. No one else in the car looked very capable of aiding him. There were lots of Uni students and a few older people. A couple broad-shouldered passengers on the opposite side of the car may have been useful, but they had all been ordered to “sit down and shut up” (John hadn’t thought this a very original thing for the hijackers to say. That thought made him think of Sherlock and he’d smiled) and John wasn’t going to risk anything with so many civilian lives at stake. One hijacker had gone into the little driver’s booth and was proceeding to yell and threaten and beat the man. It sounded like the driver owed a lot of money to someone, and they had come to collect. John could hardly believe it, it was all so sudden and random.

Everyone’s mobiles and computers were collected and shoved in a big duffel bag in the corner. Someone had asked, “what do you want?” and was promptly told to “shut the fuck up.”

So everyone did. And everyone sat, trying not to hear the driver get roughed up. The girl beside John was sniffling and John was attempting to console her quietly. She looked vaguely like Angela, the waitress, and John’s thoughts went to Sherlock and idiotic argument they’d had the night before. He promised himself that he was going to give Sherlock a huge hug and a kiss if they ever made it out of the tunnel alive. And, God-willing, hopefully Sherlock would be up for more than a hug and kiss. Sitting here on the gummy floor wondering if he was going to get out of this situation alive was really making him start to appreciate things.

* * *

 

Merida led Sherlock to a barely used door that led down to the Bakerloo line. She picked the rusty lock open for him and Sherlock handed her the second fifty pound note with a grateful “thank you.” Sherlock crept through the door and into a narrow concrete hallway that smelled of sewage and train exhaust. It was eerily quiet, absent of the rumbling of trains and he thought he heard the crowd gathered up above. Sherlock stepped carefully through the dim white tunnel lights until he came to a metal ladder leading down. He descended and landed on a thin walkway beside some tracks. He looked up the tunnel and the word “John” drifted over his mind. He stood up straight and took a breath, closing his eyes for a moment. A sense of self-confidence that had been elusive these past few weeks gently knocked at his palace, and he allowed it to seep in, filling the cracks and bolstering his assurance. Adrenaline started to sing through his veins and Sherlock smiled. It had been so long since he’d felt the rush of the chase that cases usually provided. Sherlock opened his eyes, felt for the gun, then darted up the tunnel feeling giddy with excitement and the nervous fear of danger.

He came around a bend and saw the glow of red lights on the curve of the concrete wall. He slowed and hunched down, jogging silently up to the back of the stopped train. It was illuminated a bit inside the last car, and Sherlock was fairly confident that anyone inside wouldn’t see him in the dim tunnel. He didn’t see anyone at first, which unnerved him. Then he realized everyone was on the floor. He licked his lips. There was one man standing that he could see. It looked like he was talking on a phone. Sherlock wondered how many men there were. It would be difficult for one man to subdue an entire carful of passengers, so if there were two or three to a car, and given the time of day, there might be between four and six cars on this train. About twelve or so hijackers.

Sherlock went the short way back around the bend, out of sight of the train, and called Lestrade.

 _“Sherlock, I’m really kind of busy.”_ Lestrade’s voice was nearly lost in the muffle of wind and the sounds of a crowd. He was up top keeping order.

“There’s at least twelve hijackers. They have everyone on the floor of the train car.”

A pause. _“And you know this how?”_

“Because I saw it, Lestrade.” Sherlock made sure that the eye-roll was heard in his voice. “I’m behind the train.”

 _“Don’t do anything stupid.”_  Lestrade warned. _“We just sent a team down there. Can you tell if they’re armed?”’_

“No. But given that they’ve hijacked a train, I’m going on the educated assumption that they are. Why have they done this, Lestrade? Any word?”

_“Something to do with the driver of this particular train. He apparently owed a lot of money to someone, so these are goons sent out to get him.”_

“So the passengers have nothing to do with it.”

_“Not as far as we know.”_

Lestrade’s team hadn’t shown up yet and again Sherlock thought of John, stuck on that train, quite possibly getting hurt. The idea that John or anyone on there could even possibly be getting raped like he had been, like that woman at the crime scene had been, was too much to bear. Hot anger burst in Sherlock’s chest. “There’s no time.” He growled in the phone.

_“No, Sherl—”_

Sherlock turned his phone off completely and spied the ladder on the back of the last car. He darted over to it and climbed up on silent feet. Trains always had a hatch or two on top so people could escape. He made sure the Sig was secured, then crawled like a ninja over the roof of the train in the small space between the train and the top of the tunnel. He slunk around lights sticking out of the wall, their red glow illuminating his face and eyes in a creepy cave light.

* * *

 

John was consoling the girl next to him, having pulled her into a full on half-hug. Her tears had intensified and John was working on quieting her. The hijackers were looking at her, annoyed and nervous. The driver had gone quiet some time ago, which was unnerving. One of the men came over and glared down at John and the girl.

“Shut her up.” He snarled at John.

“She’s frightened.” John snapped back, refusing to be cowed. “Let us leave and she’ll stop.”

That was the wrong thing to say, as the next thing John knew, he was getting a painful gun butt to the side of the head. The girl beside him screeched. John clenched his eyes shut, reeling from the pain. Blood trickled down the side of his skull and he blinked a few times before being hauled firmly to his feet. He braced himself to attack the guy if need be—there was no way he was going down without a fight—when a loud _clang_ sounded from above and Sherlock Holmes dropped into the car. He landed gracefully, managing miraculously to not stomp on anyone. A few people startled and Sherlock coolly raised the sig up at the man still clutching John.

“Let him go, you piece of shit.”

John was as overjoyed as he was confused about Sherlock’s sudden drop from the heavens. He didn’t have much time to process, as the man’s partner was coming up fast behind Sherlock, a knife glinting in his hand. “Sherlock!” John yelled. Sherlock didn’t even turn around. He simply jabbed his elbow back, nailing the guy perfectly in the ribs. There was a _crunch_ noise and the man groaned and stumbled back, clutching his side. A few of the passengers eagerly subdued him the rest of the way, taking away his knife and sitting on him. Sherlock stepped towards the second hijacker.

“Stop!” He yelled. He swung John in front of him and pointed a gun at his head. Sherlock froze. The guy was getting panicky now and if he killed John...just the thought created a sensation of grief and loss so intense that Sherlock had to forcefully will it away for fear he’d crumble right then and there. John stared at Sherlock, gulping. The air in the train was like a too-tight piano wire. No one moved. No one breathed. Even the guy with the broken ribs had stopped whinging. Sherlock looked John in the eye. The doctor nodded and Sherlock took two breaths before bellowing,

“Vatican cameos!”

John instantly ducked and rolled and Sherlock pulled the trigger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tbc...


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter, readers! :)  
> Sexual content in this chapter. Definitely R/MA rated.

 “Here you go, Doc.” Lestrade placed a hot cup of coffee in John’s hand.

“Thanks, Greg.”

John was sitting in the back of an ambulance, a paramedic bandaging and cleaning his head. John accepted the coffee and took a small sip. An orange shock blanket was wrapped around his shoulders, and John was sitting practically on Sherlock’s lap, the detective’s arms twined protectively around John as he looked out the back of the ambulance at the milling crowd. One arm was around John’s waist, his other hand idly stroking his thigh. Lestrade smirked at them and climbed into the ambulance with a pad of paper and a pen.

“Okay, John, everything that happened as clearly as you can remember it.”

John began speaking and Sherlock focused on John’s voice, the cadence of his speech and the way his used his hands a bit to gesture now and then. Sherlock was pleased to find that he didn’t mind this close proximity. The enclosed space of the ambulance, made tighter by the presence of the male paramedic, John, and Lestrade was…not bad at all. Certainly a month ago when he’d gotten raped he wouldn’t be able to deal with this at all. _When we get home, John and I are going to have sex._ _Try to, anyway._ Sherlock smiled at the thought and his hand wandered higher up John’s leg to his hip. He wanted to at least try. Hell knew that if this had happened before he’d gotten raped, he would have locked John and himself in the bedroom for a week to make sure that John was okay.

John didn’t seem to mind Sherlock’s not-so-subtle groping as he finished detailing to Lestrade what had happened.

“Why, Greg?” John asked. “Why did this happen?”

“I was saying to Sherlock before. The driver of your train is Pakistani. He had some bad debts in his homeland and some goons came to collect.”

“Jesus.” John murmured. “Is he okay?”

“Banged up and unconscious in the hospital, but we got to him. He should be alright.” The officer left and the paramedic finished stitching John’s head.

“All done, sir.”

“Thank you.”

The paramedic turned away to clean up.

Sherlock didn’t move. “Sherlock?” John ventured.

“Mm?”

“Comfortable as I am—” and he was, “—I’d like to go home now.”

“Of course, John.”

“To be continued?” John asked hopefully, eying Sherlock’s wandering hand.

Sherlock tightened his hand on John’s hip. “Oh God yes.”

Sherlock hopped out of the ambulance and waited as John used his shoulder to grab onto to lever himself to the pavement. A few feet away, John saw the girl that had been crying next to him on the train. She was hugging a man that John guessed was her boyfriend. She saw John and threw herself at him, hugging him too.

“Thank you!” She said in a croaky voice. Then she saw Sherlock and gave him a bear hug too. “And thank you!”

“You’re…welcome.” Sherlock said awkwardly.

“Here.” John pulled out his wallet and dug around for a moment, extracting a worn business card. Sherlock glanced at it. It bore the information of John’s old therapist, Ella. “If you need it. She’s good—specializes in traumatic events.” John offered the girl the card.

“Oh thank you.” She said sincerely. “That’s really sweet.” She hugged John again and they parted ways, striding away from the crowds and towards Baker Street.

“You want to get a cab or take the Tube?” Sherlock asked.

“Haha.” John muttered. Sherlock smiled. John snuck a glance at the detective out of the corner of his eye. Sherlock seemed calm and composed, moreso than he had been in the last few weeks, ever since the rape. John thought back to the Tube and the sense of fear and adrenaline he’d felt at the hands of the captors. The mental image of Sherlock dropping through the roof like James Bond was seared into his memory. The way he had smoothly dealt with the hijackers was incredibly hot as well. Sherlock hailed a cab and John had to restrain himself from taking Sherlock right there in backseat. Sherlock _had_ said they’d continue at home, but John wanted him to make the first move.

“So, how did you…do everything?” John asked, mostly to distract himself. His body was going _sexsexsexsex_ pretty insistently.

“I suspect I’ll tell you that whole story later.” Sherlock said. He was tapping his fingers along the leather on the door, his leg bouncing.

John smirked. He wasn’t the only one eager to get home.

When the cab pulled up to 221B, Sherlock swept up to the door to open it as John fumbled for money. He flung some bills down into the cabbie’s hand and jogged through the doorway. Sherlock kicked the door closed once John was inside and grabbed John by the lapels, pushing him back up against the wall and kissing him. John kissed eagerly back with a dignified ‘mmph.’ He wanted to grab and grope Sherlock’s body, but he stopped himself. He wasn’t entirely sure if he should…

Sherlock broke the kiss, sensing John’s hesitancy. “I appreciate it, and I’m thankful you’re holding back, but…” Sherlock grabbed John’s wrists and slid them under his long coat, guiding the doctor’s hands to his butt. John needed no more encouragement. He squeezed Sherlock’s cheeks, mindful of any lingering tenderness. Sherlock kissed him harder and John widened his stance, actually twining one leg around Sherlock’s. Their groins pressed together, hot and hard, and John stiffened, waiting for a reaction from Sherlock. The detective fondled his tongue in response. They both heard Mrs. Hudson’s door open, but neither one stopped.

“I saw the news!” She exclaimed, “are you two—oh!” She froze when she saw their embrace, her cheeks coloring a bit as she smiled. A tear came to her eye. John broke for air.

“Hello Mrs. Hudson.” He said pleasantly. Sherlock moved down to his neck, nuzzling and nibbling. “Sorry for the disturbance. We’re both fine.”

“Oh you two!” She waved them off. “You’re going to make me cry—and if the plaster falls out of the wall behind the headboard, it’s coming out of your rent.”

Sherlock startled. “Mrs. Hudson!” He sounded scandalized but he was smiling. Mrs. Hudson made a crying sound and retreated back into her flat.

“Sherlock.” John swallowed, “C’mon, don’t want to come in my pants outside Mrs. Hudson’s door.”

They managed to get upstairs, and a trail of shed clothing soon led from the door to the bedroom. They fell on the bed, naked, snogging like they’d never get enough of each other again.

“Wait, wait…” John put his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders. Sherlock growled.

“I need to know what’s okay for you.” John said, panting. “I don’t want to do anything you don’t want…”

Sherlock leaned down and bit John’s shoulder.

“I, oh God, I need you to tell me when it gets too much. Can you do that?”

“Uh-huh.” Sherlock nuzzled his nose behind John’s ear, sending a tsunami of goose bumps over his body. “Sherlock.” John rubbed Sherlock’s arms and the detective looked at him. John gulped. Sherlock’s lips were swollen and red and his face was flushed pink. He looked eager but hesitant and John took a sharp breath. _Tread carefully._ “Do you want to be in me, love?” He asked gently. He highly doubted Sherlock would want to be penetrated.

Sherlock paused, then nodded slowly. “Want to try.”

“Okay. We’ll take it slow. You call the shots, alright?”

Sherlock nodded and went back to kissing John’s face and neck. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s back, panting as Sherlock painted and dabbed him with kisses and little licks. He wrapped his leg around Sherlock’s waist, prompting the detective to keep going. He wanted Sherlock to lead, and judging by the enthusiasm Sherlock was showing, he wanted to lead too.

Sherlock, while still giving John’s mouth his full attention, reached into the bedside table drawer and withdrew the lubrication. He broke the kiss, popped the cap, and drizzled a generous amount on his fingers, then reached down and smeared them through John’s crack. He squeezed more into his hand and paused, a slightly worried look coming over his face. John widened his legs and kissed Sherlock on the cheek.

“Ready when you are.” He said. Sherlock looked down at John, settled into the soft mattress and completely pliant and willing. He watched Sherlock with trust and love in his eyes and stroked a hand through the detective’s dark curls. Sherlock cleared his throat and nodded, then very gently slipped a finger inside his partner. John closed his eyes and grunted, his back arching up.

“Am I hurting you?!” Sherlock’s voice was tight and tense.

“No, love.” John smiled, “you’re amazing.” He rocked, fucking himself on Sherlock’s still finger. “I’m proud of you.” He rocked forward and kissed Sherlock’s lips and the detective responded hungrily, sliding another finger inside. John was tight and hot and Sherlock felt some faint distant stirrings in his cock. He really hoped he could get it up for John tonight. A hazy memory of the rape crept at the corners of his palace, what was left of the puddles of greasy ooze in his head spilling over his rational mind and he firmly shoved it all into the little iron box he’d created for it. That shit had no place here. John’s golden threshold was clean again, and it was going to stay that way.

“That’s it…” John growled. Sherlock slid his hand in and out, twisting his fingers in John’s body, relishing the way the doctor’s mouth was partway open, his head thrown back and his eyes closed as the little waves of pleasure swam through him. His neck and face were flushed and a beginning sheen of sweat was forming on his forehead. Sherlock continued with his fingers for a while, watching John respond to him. He curled his fingers into John’s prostate and grinned as John’s breath caught harshly in his throat and his brows knitted together for a second. His mouth fell open wider and Sherlock happily grazed that spot again, loving that he could play John’s body this way.

“Sherlock,” John opened his eyes. They were nearly black with lust. “If you keep it up I’m going to come. Do you want me on my front? Might be easier…”

“No!” Sherlock snapped. John blinked in surprise.

“S-sorry.” Sherlock soothed his sharp tone with a kiss on John’s jaw. “It just, I, he—I was bent over when he—from behind…”

John hugged him hard, kissing his face and rubbing his back. “My back then.” John said. His voice was shaky with emotion and he swallowed it down. If he _ever_ saw that motherfucker, he’d wish he’d never been born.

“Get a pillow under your hips.” Sherlock murmured. He reached for one and John crammed it under his butt, lifting his arse higher.  “Are you stretched enough?”

“Yes.” John said. He was more than plenty stretched, but if Sherlock needed to take the extra time and care, John was fine with it. John glanced up and saw that Sherlock wasn’t quite ready, his cock barely halfway.

“C’mere, love.” John patted his chest. “Straddle me.”

Sherlock did, kneeling around John’s chest, his cock inches from John’s mouth.

“Can I…?” John looked at Sherlock’s dick and the detective nodded quickly, easing himself into John’s mouth.

“Oh God…” Sherlock tensed and hung his head back. John brought his hands up to Sherlock’s hips, massaging them in what he hoped was a soothing gesture. “Fuck, John. This is f-fucking fantastic.” He tilted his hips towards John’s throat. “I mean, I was-was a bit lost in my head for a while, but I forgot how good you are with your, your— _tongue!”_ Sherlock hissed as John frankly massaged the crown of his cock with his tongue. John grinned as Sherlock hardened some more, flushing at the compliment. Being able to reduce the cold, calculating detective into a moaning pile of goo was something of an accomplishment in his eyes. John eased his mouth away, the taste of him on his tongue and in his cheeks.

“You still want to keep going?” John asked.

“Yeah.” Sherlock took a breath and turned, giving John a pleasing eyeful of his arse as he got off his chest and repositioned himself at John’s legs. The bruises had faded completely, and his skin was white and smooth again. Good.

“Anytime.” John mentally braced himself. It had been a while, and though he’d masturbated a few times, Sherlock was bloody long. Sherlock gripped John’s leg and hoisted it up further, then he slid his hard cock inside, exhaling as he slid all the way in. John hissed at the pleasant burn and smiled when Sherlock bent forward until he was fully sheathed and their faces were only inches apart.

“God.” John said, sweat trickling down his temples.

“Does it hurt?” Sherlock asked, nuzzling John’s ear again.

“No…just full and deep.” John grinned. “Perfect.”

Sherlock smiled and leaned down for a kiss, murmuring sweet, dirty things into John’s ear as he rolled his hips in and out. He snuck a hand down and fisted John’s cock, giving him friction.

“Oh God—this won’t take long.” John lifted his hips, meeting Sherlock’s thrusts. Less than a minute later, John felt himself start to crest. He clung to Sherlock as his orgasm exploded and his body clenched around Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock came only seconds after John and they both continued thrusting, Sherlock pumping and John rocking, kissing hard all the while.

They slowed and stopped eventually, and Sherlock rested his head on John’s shoulder, both of them panting and winded.

“Y’okay?” John asked after a moment. He patted Sherlock’s hip.

“Uh-huh. Thank you, John.”

John kissed Sherlock’s cheekbone in response. The blood in his head was pounding, reminding him that he had a fresh wound, and it was starting to hurt again. A hot shower, prescription-strength painkillers for his head, and a long nap with Sherlock sounded like the most amazing thing in the world right now. Preferably, the nap would come last.

“Sherlock.” John said. “You want to shower?”

“’Kay.” Sherlock pulled out of him and John winced at the not unpleasant burn. He rolled to a sitting position, throwing the pillow aside, and grimaced. His head wouldn’t be the only thing sore tomorrow. A bottle of pills landed next to him, the very ones he’d thought of a moment ago. John glanced up and saw Sherlock, standing beside his medical bag, a smug grin on his face. Seriously the man was telepathic. John swallowed two pills dry and Sherlock held his hand out, slightly self consciously. John took it and followed Sherlock to the shower.

* * *

 

The next morning, John and Sherlock were sitting to breakfast at the table in the sitting room. John was in a washed-soft blue striped shirt and charcoal PJ bottoms, quickly typing up the hijacking on his blog (what happened afterwards in the bedroom would definitely _not_ be on the blog, thanks). Across from him Sherlock was in his long red dressing gown and some heather grey sweats, reading the news on his laptop. Both had bare feet and their legs were tangled together comfortably under the table. They were sharing a coffee mug, since Sherlock had elected to use all the other clean ones for experiments. Mrs. Hudson had mistakenly thrown out all the Petri dishes, numbered and all. The remains of the breakfast dishes were shoved aside and John and Sherlock were more content than they’d been in weeks.

The buzzer sounded, and John frowned. “Who could that be?”

“Who cares?” Sherlock groused, irritated that someone dared break their current domestic bliss. John started to move—“Don’t!” Sherlock commanded.

“I have to see who’s here.” John protested.

“No. They can come back.”

“Honestly,” John settled back into his chair, “you’re five years old.”

“Am not.” Sherlock muttered. They were both grinning. Moments later, Mrs. Hudson was knocking. “Boys? Are you decent?”

John’s ears turned pink. God, had she really seen them making out on the stairs yesterday? John wondered if he should be embarrassed. “Come on in, Mrs. Hudson.” He called. Nah, she understood.

The door opened, and Mycroft and Lestrade entered.

“Hey guys.” John started to get up, but Sherlock’s growl kept him in place.

“Well, isn’t this sweet.” Mycroft said, noting the single mug and their tangled legs.

“It was sweeter when you weren’t here, Mycroft.” Sherlock snipped. “And speaking of sweet, we have no cake, so get out.”

“Sherlock!” John admonished. “God, you’re horrible.”

“Nevermind, John.” Mycroft didn’t seem insulted.

“We were in the area.” Lestrade said, “wanted to see how you were doing.” There was a pause as Greg took in the scene. “I take it things are good between you.”

“None of your business.” Sherlock growled.

“Yes, fine, Greg. Thank you.” John said. “How is the Tube driver?”

“Still in the hospital. Stable. We got all the hijackers.”

“Are the other passengers okay?”

“Yeah, thank Christ.”

“Good.” John tried to get up again and Sherlock pinned him with an icy glare that kept John in his seat.

“Oh Sherlock, for heaven’s sake, if he wants to stand, let him.” Mycroft scolded. “He’s not going anywhere.”

“You could’ve died yesterday.” Sherlock hissed to John. “You’re not leaving my sight.”

“Aw, Sherlock, you care.”

“At times it’s just convenient having you around to do legwork.” Sherlock sniffed.

“High praise indeed, John.” Mycroft said. “Sherlock doesn’t want you out of his sight. May God have mercy on your soul.”

John’s mouth twisted into a grin and he looked at Sherlock. The detective raised an inquisitive brow and John smiled. They still had a long road ahead. Sherlock wasn’t “better” and John knew he never really would be. Time would help put distance between them and the attack, but it would always be there. The rape and hijacking had changed both of them, strengthening their love and binding their friendship even stronger. John knew they could tackle anything else life threw at them, and they’d do it together. John found he was looking forward to it.

“That’s okay.” He said, “I really don’t mind.”

End.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so, so much to everyone who read and commented on this fic. Your words helped me as a writer! 
> 
> A note: I realize that people may have been waiting for Lestrade and the Yarders to catch Sherlock’s rapist and have him brought to justice (or for John to find and murder him). I purposely chose to not have that happen because, like Sherlock said in chapter 9, 97 out of 100 rapists are never caught. In male rape, the statistics are even more fractional. Like I said at the beginning of the story, I wanted to keep this as realistic as possible, thus it’s extremely unlikely that he would be caught.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please give comments/kudos :)


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